


The Librarian

by LudicFox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC, F/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Mystery Character(s), Mystery Stories, Pre-Reichenbach, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LudicFox/pseuds/LudicFox
Summary: A young man's sudden death piques Sherlock's interest when the only clue he can acquire is a small piece of paper with a few simple numbers and letters on it. This clue leads him and Watson into the path of an attractive young librarian, who is more than meets the eye. As Sherlock's mystery unravels, he continues to be lead into the path of this woman much to his chagrin. Has the great Detective Holmes found someone to match wits with?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Original Holmes Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	1. The Mystery’s Afoot

**Author's Note:**

> This story switches regularly between Watson's and Sherlock's point of view with each chapter.

Sherlock stares curiously at the piece of paper in his hands.

“Could it be a password perhaps?” I supply.

“No,” Sherlock answers curtly, “who puts that many periods in their passwords? It’s clearly some sort of identification number. But for what?”

“ _Clearly_ ," I repeat sarcastically, as it was certainly not clear to me at all, nor would it have been for any normal individual, "Someone’s ID card then? Social security?”

Sherlock dismisses my offers silently and leans back in his chair with his fingers placed lightly together and resting against the tip of his nose.

As he sits ponderously, Mrs. Hudson waddles into the room, two steaming cups of tea in hand.

“I see you two are at it again,” She notes, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. A nice cuppa should help you both think."

She places one by me and the other by Sherlock. I thank her graciously. Holmes, however, is far too focused on solving the mystery behind the piece of paper to notice she had even entered the room at all.

The piece of paper in question was acquired by the two of us earlier that morning when Inspector Lestrade had sent a text to Sherlock that it was urgent he meet him at Langley Park. Upon receiving said text, Sherlock and I hopped onto the first train going along the Hayes line, and then took a cab the rest of the way. Once we arrived at the park, all we had to do was look for the flashing blue and red lights and bright yellow caution tape, which did not take long at all. 

"Great, _him_ again," Donovan commented scornfully, being the first to see us approaching. Her mess of curls was pulled up into a bun, which showed off her contemptuous expression even more so than usual.

"Lovely to see you as well, Donovan," Sherlock bit back, as he flashed a fake smile for a second before dropping immediately back to his usual cold seriousness. He turned to Lestrade who stood next to her, "What seems to be the problem this time?"

"See for yourself," Lestrade dipped his head down.

Our eyes followed his gesture and noticed the body of a young man with curly red hair lying lifelessly on the ground, a bullet wound between his shoulder and chest. Blood had stained through his white shirt, and his grey eyes were lifeless and dull. His skin appeared to have a blueish-green tint, and his body was covered in dirt and old leaves. Insects had already seemed to have begun eating through his clothes and skin, and flies hovered around him lazily.

Without another word, Sherlock pulled out his tiny magnifying glass and began examining the decaying body closely. He leaned in close to look at the man's suit, and shoes. Then he turned the corpse's head to the side and studied it for a moment. He lifted the dead man's left hand, then carelessly let it flop back onto the ground. He started to dig around the man's pockets.

"If you're looking for ID we've already got it," Lestrade announced, "His name is Percy Glyde. We also found this." He held up an evidence bag with a tiny piece of paper inside.

Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed it. He peered through the plastic at the numbers written in black ink on a yellow sticky note. Holmes then unzipped the bag and pulled out the piece of paper.

"Hold it! That's evidence," Donovan objected.

"If you want my help you have to accept my methods," Sherlock calmly answered as he studied the piece of paper. On it is a series of letters, numbers, and periods. "Tell me Lestrade, when did you find this body and where?"

"A little over an hour ago is when we found it. Got a call from a woman who was walking her dog. Said her dog started digging a hole nearby. She didn't think much of it until she saw a hand sticking out of the ground."

"Sure that was...quite a shock to her," I piped up.

Donovan glared at me.

Sherlock walked over to a disturbed pile of leaves and dirt, where it seemed like the body had been fully dug up. He squatted down and put his finger in the dirt then licked it. He spat it out immediately after and wiped his hands on his coat.

"What a wackjob," Donovan muttered.

"You realize that this body is not fresh, right?" Sherlock asked, as if he didn't hear her remarks, "In fact, it is at least a week old. Anyone could see that from the way the blood has turned nearly black due to oxidation, and the cadaver's skin has already begun to lose color."

"We..er, figured as much," Lestrade replied, though his hesitation said otherwise.

Sherlock closed his magnifying glass and tucked it into his jacket. Before anyone could ask him to, in true Sherlock Holmes fashion, he began listing off a slew of deductions,

"He is in his late 20s, and comes from a family of high status, hence the name brand pants and shoes. He also is recently married hence the wedding ring on his finger which is a style that has become popular only in the last year and was freshly polished not long ago. I suggest you look up the name of his spouse. She likely has been looking for her husband for some time now and is worried."

"Is that all?" Donovan asked, sharply.

"No, he also did not die instantaneously. He was shot in a spot that would not have immediately killed him, but it would have certainly caused him to pass out. This tells me whoever shot him was not a particularly good shot. Notice the bruising on his temple. He likely woke up briefly and was knocked out again. The shape of the bruise is that of the same shovel he was likely buried with. If he was buried all the way out here that means whoever killed him did not want people to know he had been killed."

"So...what does that tell us then?" Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock looked at him as if he was an utter fool, "Isn't it obvious?"

"Just tell us," Donovan quipped back, clearly growing more and more agitated.

"Whoever killed him did not actually intend to pull the trigger. It seems as though they were only intending to threaten him. Some type of scuffle then took place, and the murderer shot him out of either panic or self-defense. They then hid the body on an impulse, not wanting to be caught for their crime."

"So, how do we find them?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered.

I snort, "You don't say that often."

"I don't like saying it," He retorted. He looked at the piece of paper and frowned, "Where did you find this piece of paper?" 

"It was in his inner coat pocket," Lestrade answered.

"It hasn't even a crease in it. One would think it just came off the stack..." Holmes muttered, "It was important to him for some reason. I believe this piece of paper will tell us why this man was out in the first place, and where he was really murdered."

"You don't think he was murdered here?" I asked, "What makes you say that?"

"He is still wearing his work clothes. A man of status like his likely works closer to Central London. What would he then be doing all the way out here?"

"Perhaps he was meeting someone for the evening?"

"He was not murdered in the evening."

"How do you know that?"

"Temperatures during this time of year drop at least 10 degrees more in the evening. He has no coat on his back, therefore it had to have been warm enough out for him to have no need for one. He was murdered middle of the day at best."

"How on earth does someone get murdered in the middle of the day in Central London without anyone noticing?" Donovan asked, though it comes off more accusatory than curious.

"Stranger things have happened," Sherlock shrugged, he turned to Lestrade, "Let me know when you've found this man's wife. I would like to question her. In the meantime, Watson and I are getting lunch."

With that he spun and left the team behind as he usually did, Lestrade looking baffled, and Donovan scowling.

I thanked both of them with an awkward half-smile, then hurried after Holmes.

After a quick bite, we found ourselves back at the flat, where Sherlock was now sitting in his chair staring at the piece of paper like life's greatest mysteries were written upon it.

"Come on, Sherlock think!" He shouts at himself, throwing the piece of paper onto the table beside him. He stands up and goes to stare out the window.

"Goodness, what has him all riled up at this hour?" Mrs. Hudson whispers to me.

"A murder, it would seem," I answer, sipping my tea calmly.

"Oh, that makes the third one this month. Do people have hobbies these days?" She scoffs.

The old landlady is about to turn and leave when her eyes land on the precariously high pile of books lying about on Sherlock's desk, as well as a few which had been knocked carelessly onto the floor. She huffs exasperatedly.

“Goodness now Sherlock, what have I told you about things like this? Why you continue to buy new books when you leave the rest lying about like this completely baffles me,” She began organizing them into more orderly stacks, “I swear, one would think you were running a library in here.”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes light up, as they often did when a solution sprung to mind.

“That it!” He exclaims, turning to face us with a devilish grin.

Mrs. Hudson jumps, throwing the books up in the air at Holmes's sudden proclamation.

He grabs her by the shoulders, still grinning, "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you are brilliant!" He kisses her on the cheek. 

"W-well, I, ahm," She flounders confusedly.

“Hold on, what's _it_ , exactly?" I ask, also confused.

“Don’t you see?” He asks, though I knew it wasn’t really a question. His blue eyes were alight with the answer, and he was already grabbing his coat and scarf. 

Nonetheless, I entertain him with a reply, rising onto my feet as well, “See what?”

He turns the doorknob and swings the door open, “It’s a library call number," He states matter of factly, "Hah! I cannot believe I didn’t realize it sooner. C’mon Watson we are going to The Brtish Library.”

With that he is out the door, me rushing after him while pulling on my coat.

* * *

Sherlock keeps a brisk pace upon arriving at The British Library. Not taking any time to admire the expansive, modern, and highly populated lobby.

"Why The British Library of all places? Why not the small one right on Baker Street? This place is massive," I ask him, distressed by the library's overwhelming scale, "The lobby alone is the size of parliament!"

"Because, if any book exists in the world, we will undoubtedly find it here," Sherlock answers calmly.

"And if the call number doesn't match up?"

"It will."

"How do you know that?"

"That system of numbers and letters is _specifically_ used at The British Library. I should know. As a detective, I spend a good deal of my time reading."

I hold back a cutting remark about him being such a know it all, and roll my eyes.

Sherlock's heels click along the marble flooring, up the steps, and straight to the information desk. He hits the bell dramatically, despite the fact that there was already someone seated behind the desk who could very clearly see us approaching.

“I need to find a book,” Sherlock announces, not missing a beat.

Behind the desk sits a rather heavyset old woman with a startled look on her wrinkled face. Her outdated, red reading glasses match the smear of red lipstick stuck to her thin shriveled lips, as well as her unnecessarily fuzzy, red jumper. She adjusts her glasses, which are connected behind her neck by a string of fake pearls.

“O-oh, alright then. What kind of book?” She asks, her croaking voice hitting harshly on the ears.

Sherlock holds up the piece of paper, “I don’t know the title. Just the call number. If you type it into that monster of a computer then we will both know.” He gestures to the massive screen in front of the woman, which she was sitting far too close to.

The woman, taken aback by Sherlock's bluntness bumbles out an “o-oh, okay,” and then takes the paper into her unsteady hands.

She holds it up to her eyes, then with an ungodly level of slowness types in the numbers. She makes a face. Squints. Sherlock’s eyebrow furrows. Then the woman looks at the paper again. This time she holds it a little further from her face and squints. She types it in again, with the same speed as before. She huffs. Then again looks at the paper. Then back at the screen. Then-

“I’m sorry, _what_ is the holdup?” Holmes demands, raising his voice unapologetically.

“It would appear that the book you are looking for does not exist. Are you sure this is the right number?”

“Yes I’m sure!” Sherlock irritatedly answers, “Dammit!” He hisses, spinning away from the woman.

“Perhaps it’s not a library call number,” I offer simply.

“It is!” He shouts angrily, “I know it is. Come now, Watson, what else could it possibly be?”

“Well any number of things, I mean-“

“You know,” The woman suddenly pipes up again. We both spun to face her, “We acquire a vast collection of new books daily, and our system is not always updated as properly as it should. If you want to see if we have it I would suggest you ask our bookkeeper, Amelia Eames.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Amelia...Who’s Amelia?” I ask.

“She is in charge of sorting and reshelving our books, as well as manages the archives. She knows this library better than anyone. Got a...erm what do you call it... a photography memory, she does. She can tell you the title of any book based on the simplest detail. It is quite impressive really."

“Sorry, do you mean she has a photographic memory?” I offer.

“Yes! That’s it! She is bright, that girl is. Though also very odd. Yes very odd...” the old woman trails off, and shakes her head, “Well anyway, if you want to find her she just told me a bit ago she was going to sort books over in the historical fiction section. Just look for someone with a name tag like mine.”

The woman gestures towards the little tag attached to her jumper.

“Historical fiction. Got it,” Sherlock immediately begins to head in that direction. Always in a rush, that man.

“T-thank you, ma’am,” I stammer then hurry after him.

“So, a photographic memory eh?” I think aloud, trying to supply some small talk as we hurry up several flights to the historical fiction section, “Sounds a bit like you.”

Sherlock scoffs, “How’s that? Just because she can remember things picture perfectly doesn’t make us alike in any manner.”

“Well, she’s also 'very odd', apparently,” I note, "You two should get along."

Sherlock stops abruptly and turns to face me, “You think I’m odd?”

I hesitate, unable to read if he is offended or curious, “Ah, well just a bit.”

“Hmm.”

Sherlock spins back around without another word and moves even quicker to our destination. 

I sigh exasperatedly, muttering to myself about how a grown man of such intelligence could be so childish a the same time.

We finally reach the historical fiction section, the scale of which takes up an entire floor, and encircles the building. If one looked over the railing they could see back down into the lobby, where our dear information desk woman was just a bright red speck among the crowd. Holmes starts peeking around every shelf and poking through the gaps in the books. People nearby cast us strange looks. His lanky frame does not allow for much subtlety. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” I hiss, as a woman rushes her kids past us.

“Watson, I suggest you take that end and I will look down this one,” he answers ignoring my question, “We will find her quicker if we divide and conquer.”

"Right..." I watch him continue his strange behavior of ducking and bobbing through the aisles and shake my head. I then head in the opposite direction and take my time, strolling around the shelves. I notice a few people with their noses buried in books, and others with stacks of materials sitting at their desks. But, no other librarians. Then I see it. A library cart sticking out of one of the aisles.

“Aha, got you now,” I whisper to myself.

I head over to the aisle and turn the corner.

Standing in the aisle is one of the most breathtaking women I had ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon. The sun spills through the window behind her, casting a golden highlight to her softly curled light brown hair. Her trim waistline and curves are accentuated by her choice of attire. A close to the body black turtleneck, plaid wrap skirt, black pantyhose and set of leather boots. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses sit atop her head of wavy brunette locks. Her skin is a rich, warm tone, made warmer by the light behind her. She is intensely focused on the book in her delicate hands.

She is a picture of peacefulness and focus. Something about her countenance was undeniably as attractive as her physical features.

“Ah, ehm, sorry, hullo there,” I stammer through my words once I realize I’m looking like a complete fool just staring at this stunning woman.

Her head snaps up and she shuts her book immediately. Her fox-like eyes are the color of honey in the light and framed by long, fluttering lashes. 

“How can I help you?” She asks politely. Her voice is gentle and light. Now that she is facing me I can see she does have a name tag attached to her shirt. 

“I’m looking for-er, well actually, my friend and I are looking for a book of sorts.”

The corner of her lip quirks, “Well you’re certainly in the right place. If you had said anything else I’d have to send you away.”

I chuckle nervously, “Ha, yes right. This is a library, after all. Hah, quite good." I want to punch myself for sounding so incredibly stupid.

She, however, does not share my discomfort, “So what’s the book?” She asks.

“Hm? Oh yes, right. Well, I don’t know.”

She raises an eyebrow, “You don’t know?”

“Ah well you see I do know, er sort of. See I don’t have the title but-“

“Watson, what the devil is taking you so long, I’ve searched all other aisles for this damned woman.”

Sherlock rounds the corner and comes next to me, frowning.

“Well, what is your excuse?” He badgers.

I clear my throat and tilt my head to the woman in front of me that he somehow has yet to notice.

He follows my gaze and finally sees her.

“Oh, I see. Well, good job then.”

He is, unsurprisingly, not at all caught off guard by the woman’s appearance. After all, despite being someone of all the wit and brilliance you could ask for, when it came to women, especially beautiful ones, Sherlock Holmes was as daft as they came.

She, however, did not seem bothered. In fact, she looked rather amused.

“We are here to find a book,” Sherlock explains to her.

“Ah yes, so I’ve heard,” She replies, “I take it you don’t know the title either?”

“No, but I have the call number,” He quickly returns, and holds out the paper, “Are you Amelia?”

“I am,” she replies and takes the paper from his hands. She studies it for a moment. I notice a sudden look on her face. One I was very familiar with seeing. Her eyes moving quickly back and forth along the numbers, intensely focused. 

“Well do you have it?” Sherlock demands after hardly two seconds had passed. 

I'm ready to scold him for expecting her to recognize a complex string of numbers and letters so quickly, but before I can she answers confidently, “Yes we do. Follow me," She turns and pushes her cart out of the aisle and past us. I catch a whiff of her perfume, which smells like vanilla.

Sherlock and I share looks. Mine is baffled. His is...how do I explain it? A mix between surprised and intrigued. We quickly follow before she's gone too far.

She leads us to the library's employees elevator, and with a swipe of her ID card the doors open. We all cram inside. It is not a very comfortable fit when you include the giant cart of books between us. Amelia presses a button several floors up.

"So, why are you looking for this book?" Amelia asks. Her tone reflects less curiosity and more suspicion. Sherlock seems to pick up on this as well.

"Oh, it's a favorite of my fathers," Sherlock answers, putting on one of his typical character acts. That of a wistful, and somber son, "He passed away just last year. He told me where to find it in the British Library, but due to his failing health could not recall the title. He had checked it so many times out of the library, however, that he could remember with perfect precision the call number." Sherlock fakes a sniffle, as if he were holding back tears, "So very like my father to remember such seeminly insignificant details."

I almost want to kick him the story sounds so unbelievable. 

The corner of Amelia's lip quirks up again.

"Ah, really? A favorite of his you say?"

"Yes, very much so," Sherlock dabs at his eyes.

"So he was much into BDSM then?" 

I choke on my own spit, and try to cover it with a sudden fit of coughing.

"Oh, I don't judge," Amelia answers before Sherlock can form a coverup explanation. I could tell she was fighting a humorous smile. Her lips tightly together, but curved upward, with an impish look of laughter behind those bright hazel eyes of hers. Sherlock clears his throat, his posture stiffening.

"Right, yes, well, seems dear old dad wanted to play a joke on me. How very like him," Sherlock replies smoothly. The tears brimming his eyes only seconds before mysteriously gone, "Nonetheless, it was his dying wish, so perhaps there is something more to this joke of his."

"Oh like a puzzle?" Amelia asks, "Did he like puzzles?"

"Ah, yes very much so," I chime in, now jumping in on the teasing towards my dear friend, "In fact, we often called him the Puzzle King. And you've got little Puzzle Prince Jr. right here next to you."

Sherlock scowls at me, and I try to suppress my laughter.

"Yes, and I couldn't possibly go anywhere without my Puzzle Jester, now could I?" Sherlock cuts back. 

My smiling drops to a frown. Sherlock grins mischievously. The elevator bell dings.

"Ah, here we are then," Sherlock announces and is the first to exit, with me, Amelia, and her cart of books following suit.

He spins around, suddenly appearing confused. 

"Hold on. This is not the mature section of literature," He announces, brow furrowed. 

He is right. Though it doesn't take a master detective to notice that. After all, the word Mystery is hanging over the entryway in big, bolded letters.

"Ah you caught me," Amelia replied, "I simply had to play a trick on the famous Sherlock Holmes and his partner Dr. Watson."

We both turn to face her in surprise.

"How did you-?" I trail off.

"Come on now, the curt behavior, dark curly hair, and dramatic coat and scarf? You are not a subtle person, Mr. Holmes. Though I did expect you to be a bit taller...Anyway, I read a great deal and I'll be the first to admit I have read every tabloid known to man on the famous Boffin Sherlock Holmes. I am disappointed though not to see you in that snazzy hat of yours."

Sherlock grimaces at the detestable nickname and hat comment. I chuckle.

"And the only man who would ever be by his side other than London's own Inspector Lestrade, is Dr. Watson himself. It's quite simple really." 

"Is it now?" I pipe up, smirking that this strange young woman just used one of Sherlock's own favorite phrases on him. He seems less amused. He squints and scans her up and down. Probably trying to pick something minimal out in her appearance to then use against her as he so often loves doing.  
  
"Are you trying to figure me out, Mr. Holmes?" She asks, again her expression shows a sort of restrained amusement.  
  
"I already have," He replies sharply.

"Sherlock, don't-" I begin, but it is too late.

Without missing a beat, he quickly begins to list off everything he's deduced about her, "You're a single woman, been single for years in fact. Likely because you have a certain discomfort around men. This is obvious by the way you have been using that book cart of yours to keep your distance from us. I deduce that your discomfort stems from often receiving unwanted attention from men which is why you wear a number of rings, including a rather nice one on your ring finger. But while it is expensive it is not a real wedding ring. Looking closely one can tell that is not a real diamond, but actually zirconian. However, you certainly would never let any man get close enough to see that."

"Sherlock-" I cut in, trying to stop him from hurting this poor girl, but he continues relentlessly.

"You are indeed a reader, you read so often in fact that you have several paper cuts along your fingers. You also have a nervous tick of chewing at the skin around your fingernails, but you keep your actual nails very manicured. That tells me you are wealthy enough to afford a proper manicure, as well as high-end clothing. After all, those shoes are real nappa leather, and that skirt isn't cheap material neither. In fact, it looks as if you just bought it yesterday based on the fact that there is still the plastic wire from the store tag that you didn't properly remove sticking out. But where do you get that kind of money exactly? Certainly not as a librarian."

"Sherlock, stop it," I try again. Again he ignores me.

"No, you get that kind of money elsewhere. A second job? Not likely. With someone at your level of management for a library as prestigious as this one you wouldn't have that kind of time. And, as I've stated before you have no spouse to support you. Therefore, your parents are then the next best assumption. Both wealthy enough to send you money regularly, and giving you a comfortable flat on the edge of London. In fact, they would be more than pleased to support you for the rest of your life. But then that money isn't enough for you. No, it isn't because you don't just like to read books. You're obsessed with them. That's why you chose to work in a library despite your parents likely wishing you had gone to university. It's your own way of giving your parents a hard time, as their smothering treatment both exhausts and irritates you. It is also why you still choose to dress the way you do even though you utterly despise the attention it gets you from men, because you know it drives them batty wearing short skirts and tight sweaters which accetuate your-"

"SHERLOCK!" I shout.

"...curves." He finally stops.

I sigh and rub my temples.

I anxiously brace myself for this poor woman to break down in tears that this man just completely exposed every seemingly private detail of her life. But, to my surprise, I hear her start laughing. Laughing rather boisterously too. Sherlock is as taken aback as I am. 

"Hahaha, you really are as good as you say!" She exclaims, between laughs, "Goodness, you are really much more fun than I thought you would be. Thank you for that."

"You are...welcome?" Sherlock's reply comes out as a question. I'm just as confused as he is. Anyone else would have been angry, or upset. Finding such a thing amusing...that was new.

"Ah, I haven't laughed like that in quite a while," She sighs, ignoring our confusion, "Well then, let's find that book for your dear old daddy, why don't we?"

She sets her shoulders back and parks her cart to the side, then struts ahead of us. 

"C'mon now, I haven't got all day," She calls out seeing Sherlock and I have yet to budge.

Sherlock adjusts his coat and straightens up, "Right, lets go Watson."

"R-right."


	2. The Woman In White

It does not take me long to read Amelia Eames. She wears her lifestyle on the fabric of her clothes and exposes her phobias through her stance alone just like every other dull character in London. What does stump me is her reaction, and that she so quickly recognized us. Perhaps she is a little more clever than I gave her credit for upon first meeting her.

No doubt Watson is wondering why I am not fawning over her like he is. Sure she is an attractive type by the general population's standard of beauty. An hourglass figure, and only in need of a light hand of makeup. Also, being a librarian makes her fit the archetype of the so-called "pretty bookish type" that they always talk about in those silly romance books he secretly reads. I personally find such books boorishly predictable. The latest one he is reading is especially dull, it is so painfully clear that the main lead is going to eventually leave her deplorable boyfriend to be with the real romantic interest: her next-door neighbor. He will then run away with her to France where they will elope, just like she always dreamed of. I have half a mind to tell Watson, but he hates when I spoil the endings.

I eye Amelia as she leads us down a narrow aisle at the back of the mystery section. She trails her manicured nails lightly along the spines of books as we travel past. She comes to a halt and smoothly pulls one of the books off the shelf and hands it to us. The book is incredibly old, to the point that I am surprised even the library still thought it was worth keeping. On the cover is a painted portrait of a young woman in a sickeningly frilly white dress, the style of which was right out of the 19th century. The title is written at the top in crisp script lettering.

"The Woman in White?" Watson reads aloud.

"Recognized as the first mystery novel ever written," Amelia comments, "The author, Wilkie Collins himself considered it his greatest work. A fitting novel for detectives like yourselves. Have you read it before?"

"No," Watson answers.

"Yes," I answer. I take it from her hands.

"Interesting that a mystery would bring you to a mystery novel," Amelia states.

Watson and I look at her curiously.

"You didn't really think I believed that made-up dad story, right?" She quirks an eyebrow, "An actor, you are not, Mr. Holmes." 

"I thought I played it rather convincingly," I return, brushing dust off the book jacket.

Again I see that playful smile of hers. Like she had a private joke in mind that neither Watson and I understood.

It was rather annoying.

"What is the book about, exactly?" my ever-clueless companion, John Watson asks.

Amelia opens her mouth to explain, but I beat her to the punch, "A young man, by the name of Walter Hartwright finds a young woman dressed in white on her way to London. He gives the woman directions and later discovers she had escaped from an asylum. The man falls in love with a woman named Laura Fairlie, who is betrothed to a man by the name of Percival Glyde. She falls in love with Walter in return but still marries Percival who later plots to murder his new wife and collect the insurance money. It is revealed that the woman in white, who Walter sees several times throughout the book, goes by the name Anne Catherick, and is someone Percival is desperately trying to catch because he believes she knows his secret."

"What secret?" Watson requests, interested.

"That he is an illegitimate child, and not a baronet like he so claimed. In the final climax, Laura dies from heart failure, and Percival is killed in a fire. However, it is later revealed that Anne and Laura had switched places and disguised themselves as one another, so the one actually dead is Anne and Laura is found locked up in the asylum. She and Walter get married. The end."

"So...what does any of that have to do with our case?" Watson questions.

"The man we found, do you remember his name, Watson?" I return.

"Percy...something."

"Percy Glyde," I complete.

"Percy Glyde...wait a moment," John's eyes widen, "Like Percival Glyde from the book?"

"It would appear so."

"Good Lord...do you think that...?" He trails off.

I can hardly contain my excitement. This mystery just got a little bit more interesting.

"It would appear someone was rather inspired by this book. The question now is, how does it all connect?"

Suddenly, my cellphone begins to ring. I answer it.

"No phones in the library," Amelia orders.

I ignore her.

"Lestrade, what is it? I'm in a library," I state.

"Sherlock, bad news," Lestrade replies on the other side, "Nowhere in our records have we found the name Percy Glyde, nor a woman by the same surname who has been recently married."

"Hm, that is interesting..." I pause, allowing myself some time to think. I look at the book in my hands.

If Percy Glyde does not exist, and this murder is connected to this book somehow, the most logical conclusion would be....

"Lestrade, cross reference women who have been married in the past two years with anyone who has submitted a missing persons report in the last week. Whoever comes up in both searches is the woman we want."

I hang up.

"What did Lestrade say?" Watson asks.

"Percy Glyde is evidently only a work of fiction, much like this book," I reply, "Which means his ID was forged. Which means _someone_ purposely forged his ID. This changes everything entirely. Ooo yes, this is most exciting. Most exciting indeed."

Now I'm the one trying to hold back my laughter and glee.

"Hold on, I'm lost," Watson pipes up.

"Oh come now Watson it is so simple!" I begin pacing back and forth along the aisle excitedly, "If the ID was forged, who would have forged it? Not our victim. He was not nearly so clever. No, it had to have been our murderer. This means that he knowingly switched out the victim's ID and knowingly planted this clue so that we would figure out there was a connection between both this book and the man's murder. If we want more answers we need to talk to Laura."

"Who is Laura?" 

"Laura Fairlie," Amelia supplies before I can, "Percival's wife in the story is Laura Fairlie. It would seem that you need to find the real version of her."

"Correct," I reply, though I am rather disappointed she said it before I could. 

My phone dings. I look at it and read a text from Lestrade that reads, "We found her. Lori Ambridge. 345 Hillview Street."

"Time to go, Watson!" I throw the book over my shoulder and leave.

Watson catches it clumsily behind me and passes it to Amelia.

"Erm, sorry, he's a bit, well-" Watson blunders.

"I can tell," Amelia replies, "Hope you solve your mystery, Dr. Watson." 

She smiles kindly at him and returns the book to its shelf.

"T-thank you."

"Watson!" I yell. Someone shushes me two aisles over, "Hurry up!"

"Coming!" He hurries to my side. Someone shushes him too, "Oh shush yourself!" He snaps back as we head to our next destination.

* * *

345 Hillview Street is only ten and three-quarters of a minute drive from the library. Despite the short drive, Watson still finds it is just long enough to torture me with questions as he so often enjoys.

"Do you think someone is really using that book as inspiration for murder?"

"That would be the most obvious conclusion, yes."

"But...The Woman In White is not a murder mystery from the sounds of it," Watson notes.

"No, it is not. But that didn't stop our perpetrator, now did it?"

He sighs and mutters resentfully "Why is it that you attract all the crazy people in London?"

"Why is it that you stay by my side even though I do?" He opens his mouth to answer but I interject, "Don't answer that. I already know why."

Before he can scold or pester me any further, our cab stops and I immediately exit the car, heading towards the narrow townhouse in front of us. Watson scurries to my side. I ring the buzzer.

A few moments later a drab young woman opens the door. Her freshly washed, blonde hair is pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes are irritated and red, with mascara smudged underneath. She wipes her nose with her cardigan sleeve. On her finger is a polished, silver wedding ring, with a wedding band that reflected the style of our victim's.

"Who are you?" She sniffles, "And what do you want?"

"Private detective Sherlock Holmes, at your service. And this is my associate, Dr. Watson. We understand your husband has been missing for the past week?"

"Eight days...to be precise," She answers softly, "Not that anyone else was counting, seeing how even the police haven't bothered to look into things beyond simply telling me my husband was likely cheating on me and ran away." She holds back a sob.

"Well, the good news is, Mrs. Ambridge, your husband did not cheat on you, nor is he missing," I state matter of factly.

"Really?" A look of surprise reaches her eyes.

"No, he is dead. We found his body early this morning."

Watson lowers his head into his hand and lets out a long sigh.

"W-what?" The woman's expression is horrified.

"Yes it is very sad indeed, may we come in?"

* * *

"Way to go Sherlock," Watson spits once we are seated inside on the living room couch, "Can't you have a little bit of delicacy with these things?"

"She was going to find out eventually, what did you want me to do, _lie_?" I answer, taking a sip from my cup of tea.

"Yes and thanks to your brilliant honesty she is now sobbing hysterically in the other room! How are we supposed to ask questions of a woman like that?"

He was right. We could hear her pathetic sobbing coming from the room above us.

"Oh, please. She'll get over it. She was cheating on him anyway."

Watson sputters, "W-what?!"

"Did you look at her? Hair freshly cleaned, dressed for a day out, she even had her makeup on, though it was a bit runny."

"She was crying before we came to the door!" Watson exclaims.

"Yes but not out of worry for her missing husband, worry that he knew exactly what she was doing in secret. She had the face of a guilty woman. One who felt that her own affair then led her husband to cheat on her as well, and now caused his death. Even when we told her he was not missing her expression was not one of hope, but of fear. Fear that he was going to come back and confront her. Come on, Watson. You really can be so...oblivious." I sip my tea.

He looks like he is about to strangle me when a woman walks in, carrying a tray of cookies. It's Lori's friend, Annabel, who, after Lori dashed off to her bedroom, came into the hallway to let us in and offered us something to drink.

"I brought you two a snack. So sorry about Lori. She is going through a hard time right now." 

Annabel is a frail, jittery woman. Her hair is thrown into two messy braids, and her eyes are big and green. She is dressed in a long paneled skirt and oversized sweater, displaying her discomfort in her own body. She avoids eye contact with Watson and I and has a very monotoned voice. Even when saying sorry she hardly sounds sorry at all.

"It's, ehm, alright," Watson answers, giving a half-smile. Annabel looks at him, then quickly looks away.

"What brings you two here?" She asks, sitting in the chair furthest from us.

I open my mouth to speak but Watson interjects, "We are looking into Lori's husband's case."

"Oh yes, sad isn't it?" She asks. Her tone again is unsettlingly empty, "Lori has been so upset since finding out he was cheating on her. Today was her first day planning to go out on her own, said she was going to meet a friend of hers...though she wouldn't say who."

I pass Watson a knowing look. He scowls back at me.

"Yes, well, Annabel, tell us, how long have Lori and her husband been married?"

"About a year now. They were together for ages before though."

"And her husband's name is?"

"Shouldn't you know that? You're on his case, aren't ya?" She looks at us suspiciously.

"Of course, but his name simply escapes me right now. We have cases every day. Can't expect us to remember everyone."

"Richard."

"Ah yes, now I remember." I nod my head as if I knew the name well, "So tell me, Annabel, how long have you been staying here with Lori?"

"For about a month now."

"So you were here even while she and Richard were married?"

"Yes. I lost my job awhile ago, haven't been able to find a new one. Lori and Richard were kind enough to give me the spare bedroom."

"I see..." I trail off, sorting through the number of theories and thoughts spilling into my mind. 

Two newlyweds, who clearly were having marital issues considering the one had been lead to cheat on him, agreed to have a friend stay with them? Now that would cause anyone to raise an eyebrow. Even Watson has a look of bemusement upon her mentioning such a situation.

"What was the reason for your unemployment?" I inquire.

I notice her hands ball into fists, gripping her skirt tightly. Her eyes dart back and forth. She looks uncomfortable, hesitant....afraid. Afraid of what? Clearly, my question has upset her in some way. But why? The questions turn in my mind and I listen intently for the answer.

"I-it was...a misunderstanding," She finally relents. Her fists unclench and she seems to relax a bit.

"What kind of misunderstanding?" I persist.

"They accused me of stealing merchandise. Said one of the customer's caught me. It wasn't what they thought." She finally looks us in the eye. She is glaring quite intensely.

"What do you mean?" Watson asks, noticing her sudden change in demeanor as well.

"I was only trying to protect everyone. I had reason to suspect someone had planted a bomb inside, so I had to take it and dispose of it!"

"A bomb?!" Watson exclaims, shocked, "What brought you to that conclusion?"

"I saw someone hide it inside. I know I did. How they got it out of there before anyone else checked, I don't know."

"Are you sure that's what you saw?" John presses.

"I know it!" She shouts, jumping to her feet. Watson startles at her sudden outburst.

Before I can ask any further questions, Lori has come back into the room. It seems her makeup has been freshened up, and she has changed her sweater. She places a light hand on Annabel.

"Annabel, remember what we talked about," She says softly.

Annabel looks at her and whimpers, then breaks down into tears and falls into her friend's arms. Lori rubs her back and shushes her like a baby.

Good lord, do these women ever stop crying?

I lean over and whisper to Watson, "This is why I hate cases involving infidelity. The amount of emotion involved is positively exhausting."

Watson gives me a look, "Have a heart, would you?"

"No."

Once Annabel has calmed down a bit, Lori asks her to go make herself some tea, and she leaves the room. Lori then looks at us, a scornful expression on her face.

"I suppose you two have questions for me?" She asks, arms crossed.

"Just one, were you in fact cheating on your husband?" I ask. 

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," She replies. 

I look at her, eyebrow raised. She seems to decide it's not worth the effort and collapses into the chair Annabel was sitting in only moments before. She lets out a long sigh.

"Alright, fine. Yes, I cheated on him." 

"How long?"

"Two years."

"But you've only been married for one," Watson remarks, confused.

"Yeah, and?" She rolls her eyes, "Richard was obsessed with me since we first met. He constantly would rave about how beautiful and wonderful I was. It was pretty nice, honestly. But, I felt like I was being suffocated by his constant clinginess. I started seeing someone else, just to have a bit of a break from Richard. But when he proposed I broke off the affair. Richard came from money, and he had a good job. He would make a much better husband than the man I was seeing. It was only a few months after being married that I realized I was not at all in love with my husband, and started up the affair again."

"And what is the name of the man you were seeing?"

"William. William Birkshire. He was..." She pauses, seemingly unsure if she should say what she is about to, but then decides it's not worth hiding. That was something that seemed to have changed about Lori since meeting her at the door, she now had the countenance of a woman tired of keeping secrets, "He was my art teacher in high school."

"And your friend Annabel, does she happen to have any underlying health conditions?" 

"Schizophrenia," Lori replies. 

"I surmised as much," I leap to my feet, satisfied that all my deductions had been confirmed, "Well then Mrs. Ambridge, so nice to have a little chat. Give my regards to your boyfriend."

"Wait, that's it?" Lori is shocked.

I nod nonchalantly, "Why yes, whatever else would I need to ask?"

"W-well, typically people question their suspects a bit more than that," She bumbles.

"Indeed, but you are not a suspect, Mrs. Ambridge. An adulterer you may be, but a murderer you are not."

With that I turn and leave, John Watson following closely behind.

"Where to next, then?" He asks, as we exit the house and step back onto the pavement.

I answer his question with another question, "Tell me, Watson, is there anything you find odd about this case, thus far?" 

"What you mean other than the fact that we discovered someone is using a mystery novel as inspiration for murder, and just talked to a mentally crazy person?"

"Think Watson," I insist, "Is there anything that does not add up? Anything we know to be true?"

He frowns at me, and then ponders for a moment before answering, "W-well, I suppose we aren't any closer to finding our murderer, are we?"

"Are you sure about that?" I smile knowingly, "Did you notice how Annabel kept her hands hidden in her sleeves? Almost like she didn't want us to look at them. And then you could not have possibly missed how carelessly she talked about Mr. Ambridge being dead. How carelessly she talked in general. But then, when Lori came into the room she was an emotional wreck. Why do you suppose that is?"

Finally, it starts to dawn on him, "Hold on, you're not suggesting..."

"Indeed."

"W-well, then we need to call the police! They need to interrogate her!"

"There is no need for that," I reply, "She will turn herself in."


	3. The Other Murderer

When Holmes predicted that Annabel was going to turn herself in I was utterly shocked. I didn't believe him then, and I didn't believe him still when I went to bed that night, woke up the next morning, and was called down to the police station with him.

I did believe him, however, when I saw her through the double glass, seated in the interrogation room, cuffed to the table with tears stained down her cheeks. 

"I'll be damned," I mutter softly. Then sigh. "Well I suppose that's it then? The mystery solved itself."

Sherlock scoffs, "Please, Watson, you should be smarter than that."

I scowl at him. "What do you mean? She just confessed! We both heard it."

I flash back to just seconds before, where, with eyes filled with tears we both heard Annabel remorsefully express that she killed Richard Ambridge in an allyway, believing he was going to murder Lori and collect her insurance money.

"I did it to protect my friend!" She had screamed at the officer, then broke down into hysterical sobbing.

"It was clear as day!" I insist, knowing Holmes was right next to me when it happened.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"It is no surprise that a woman with schizophrenia would fall into such a delusion to the point of being lead towards murder. But do you not see the massive hole in the story? Come on Watson it is like I said before. Something does not add up." 

He pulls from his jacket the book from the library and throws it into my hands. I barely catch it. I am confused about how he even came to attain it despite knowing we left it with Amelia yesterday, but decide it is not worth questioning.

"Why are you bringing up the book again?"

He reels on me, clearly annoyed I have not gotten whatever he was on about.

"Where do you think Annabel came up with the idea that Lori was going to be murdered, Watson?" He demands, "And how did it come to be that Richard's ID was changed with the name of one of the key characters in that book? And is it not suspicious to you that Lori cheated on her husband with an art teacher, when in The Woman In White, Laura falls in love with a man who is also an art teacher?!"

He huffs and paces back and forth, his jacket sweeping behind him dramatically. God, he is such a drama king. He stops and faces me, taking the book from my hands.

"And If none of those things seem to send the wheels turning in your mind then perhaps this at least will," He breathed, "Do you really believe a mentally unwell woman, who has never shot a gun in her life, and immediately turned herself in once the body was found concocted this whole plot to mirror a 19th-century mystery novel?" 

My head is reeling with his list of questions. But he was right, as he so irritatingly is most times. The mystery had not been solved at all. 

"Well perhaps the book is just one of those...what do you call it, er, red herrings," I supply, floundering for an explanation.

Sherlock titters, "Please, it is obvious there is something else going on. Lucky for you I already have a few theories."

"What theories?"

"Well, for starters, I surmise we may be dealing with two murderers."

"Two?!"

"One to start the crime, another to finish it. That is why our victim was killed in one place and found in another, and why the dirt at Langley Park was at least three days fresher than the body. Do you know what is across the street from Langley Park?"

"Well, yes of course," I reply, relieved that I could answer at least one of his questions, "It's the old asylum, Bedlam." 

"In the Woman In White, Anne was revealed to have escaped from an _asylum_. And did you hear Annabel's reason for shooting Richard? It was because she was convinced he wanted to murder Laura-"

"Lori," I correct.

"And collect the insurance money," He continues, ignoring me, "Just like in the book. It is clear our real mastermind was framing everything perfectly to match up with the story. And it is also clear that they wanted us to make that connection. The question is why? And when will they strike next?"

"You think there is going to be another murder?" I ask, appalled.

"I hope so...Things have gotten far too interesting for this to be all there is. This is not the end Watson, this is only the beginning."

"You're mad, you know that?" Donovan pipes up behind us. 

We both turn to face her. This time she has Anderson with her. The two of them look at us smugly.

"If you want to see mad, I suggest you look no further than through that window," Sherlock snaps back at them.

Donovan clicks her tongue disapprovingly.

"Leave it to Sherlock holmes to try and keep a mystery alive that has already been put to death," Anderson quips.

"Leave it to the British Police to be incapable of telling when a mystery has been solved, and when it has not," Holmes returns smoothly.

"Alright, alright, stop your bickerin'," Lestrade cuts in. He turns to face Sherlock, "What are you four on about now? The mystery's been solved, innit?"

"I have reason to believe another murder is going to occur. When it does, you contact me."

With that he turns on his heel and leaves, I come hurrying after him.

"Where are we going now?" I ask.

"To return this," He holds up his copy of The Woman In White, "back to the library."

* * *

When we arrive at the British Library again we head straight to the information desk, where the same old woman from last time is sitting. Today she has chosen a purple theme, rather than red. Purple shawl, purple nail polish, purple eye shadow, and purple glasses. However, this time, rather than having her face up against the computer screen, it is up against a magazine she has placed upon the table. She hunches over it to the point that her nose is nearly brushing the page. Sherlock hits the bell to gain her attention.

She looks up, startled, and immediately recognizes us, "O-oh, hello again."

"Hello, I'd like to return this book, and where can we find Amelia today?" Sherlock asks.

"She's not in, I'm afraid," The old woman answers, "She never works on Tuesdays."

Holmes frowns, "And where might we find her, instead?"

"Probably at home. She calls Tuesdays her thinking days...whatever that means. Not sure there is ever a time where that girl doesn't appear lost in her thoughts or focused on a book."

"And what is her address, exactly?"

The old woman's eyebrows raise in surprise, "Now, then! You are quite a forward one, aren't you? Sorry, but I cannot be giving out personal information like that. Though you are not the first man to ask me that, trust me. I won't give you her phone number neither."

"Oh, you misunderstand, madam," Sherlock suddenly looks apologetic, an expression I have rarely if ever, seen him show, "I am actually a relative of Amelia's."

The old woman scoffs, "Sure, like I haven't heard that one before."

Sherlock's facade quickly drops. 

"Listen, old woman, I need to know where that irritating girl lives. Someone's very life may depend upon it!" He demands, slamming his hands on the desk.

But the old woman does not budge. "Sorry. You'll have to come again tomorrow if you want to see her so badly."

His face scrunches up in annoyance, then he spins away to leave. 

"Hold on, you need to sign for this!" The woman calls after him. But he is already throwing the doors open. 

"Erm, here I'll do it," I offer.

"That man really is a piece of work, isn't he?" The old woman mutters scornfully, handing me a pen.

"You have no idea," I answer, shaking my head.

"Still..." She ponders, eyeing the doors, "There is something strangely attractive about him, isn't there?"

I freeze midway signing my name at her comment. I'm not quite sure how I'm supposed to respond to that.

* * *

When I get back outside I see Sherlock staring at his cellphone on one of the benches. I let out a long, irritated sigh.

"Well, you owe me ten pounds," I announce, approaching him, "seeing as _apparently_ you stole that book rather than check it out properly."

He ignores me, focused intently on his phone.

"Why you felt the need to steal a book that is _literally_ free, I have no clue. But, of course, being Sherlock Holmes you don't really think about those things, do you? I don't suppose common decency exists in that stupid Mind Palace of yours, now does it?"

"Why go through the pointless process of getting a reader's card, and then an even more pointless process of checking out a book, when you can just take it?" He answers, "Besides. If they were really that concerned, they should have fixed the alarms on the west entrance." 

I resist the urge to punch that aggravating, careless look on his face. 

"You are just awful you know tha-"

"Got it!" He exclaims, shutting his phone and jumping to his feet.

"Got what?"

"Amelia's address. Come on, then."

"Now just wait a min-"

He signals a cab coming down the street, and it pulls off and stops in front of us.

"Park House Apartments, please," He asks the cabbie and then gets inside. He looks at me, as I stand outside, arms crossed. "Well, are you coming?"

"Not until you give me my ten pounds."

He groans, "Come on, don't be ridiculous. Get in."

I plant my feet firmly. "Nope. I'm not doing it. Not until you pay me back for _you_ _r_ library fee."

He shakes his head and sighs, "Are you seriously not going to get in until I pay you?"

"I can stand here all day," I answer, stubbornly.

"I could just leave, you know. Just drive off on my own."

"Go right ahead. I won't stop you."

"I'll do it, John. You know I will."

"Okay then."

"Seriously, I will."

"Prove it."

He reaches for the door handle and slams it shut. 

"Go," He tells the cabbie. 

I watch as the car drives off.

I tap my foot on the pavement. Adamantly staying still.

I wait for one minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

A cab screeches to a halt in front of me. The window opens and a familiar hand reaches out, holding exactly ten pounds.

"Thank you," I reply.

Taking the money cheerfully, I then get into the cab. 

Sherlock sulks in the seat beside me. I, however, cannot help but grin.

"See what happens when you-" I begin.

"Shut up," He snaps.

* * *

After a short trip, our cab stops in front of a beautiful modern apartment building. It looks almost like a piece of art with its blue and white facade, adorned with high glass windows and interlacing metal piers. The front door is framed by a sharp red and white entryway.

I whistle at the sight. "This place is pretty nice," I comment. 

"Told you she lived comfortably," Sherlock mutters.

"You jealous?" I ask teasingly.

He ignores me and gets out of the cab. I follow suit. He hits the intercom button.

A smooth, low voice answers, "Yes?"

"Here for Ms. Amelia Eames. She is expecting us," Sherlock confidently tells him. 

"Your name?" The man asks.

"Sam Spade."

"One moment please."

I pass Holmes a curious look. The name sounds familiar to me, but I cannot figure out why.

We wait for a few minutes, and then the voice comes back on the intercom.

"Come right in, Mr. Spade."

There is a buzzing noise and a click and Sherlock pulls on the door to find it opens with ease.

The interior is just as modern and chic as the exterior. With white couches and high ceilings, and bright lights. It is certainly not 221B Baker Street.

A handsome young man is at the front desk. His midnight-black hair has a bit too much gel in it, and his shirt is buttoned up too high.

"Room 405. Elevator is to the right," He announces. 

We take his directions, and then shortly find ourselves outside room 405. Sherlock knocks lightly. A moment later the door opens.

Although I am prepared this time, I am still left pleasantly surprised when I am reminded of how beautiful Amelia is.

Her softly curled hair is pulled over to one side, falling like a waterfall over her shoulder. Her warm skin peeks out around her collar bone, where the top two buttons of her white dress shirt are undone. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and the bottom of her shirt is tucked into her grey and black plaid dress pants, which is fastened around her small waist with a black leather belt. She somehow manages to look both academic and casual at the same time.

This time she is wearing her tortoiseshell glasses on her nose. They somehow make her narrow golden eyes appear larger.

"Funny seeing you two again," She comments, holding open the door, "Though when I heard the great Sam Spade would be visiting, I did not anticipate him bringing a friend." 

She looks at me and smiles softly. I feel my cheeks flush.

"We are here-" Sherlock begins, but she interrupts.

"Let me guess, you found the murderer, but you're looking for the real mastermind."

"How did you...?" I begin.

"Well, from the little I picked up during our first encounter, I surmised that someone who would put so much effort into one murder is likely to want to do it again. And I also deduced that your culprit this first go-around isn't the person you're really looking for."

"That is...correct," Holmes answers hesitantly.

He furrows his brow. Even he seems stumped that she had solved things on such little information.

She starts to laugh. Confusing us even further.

"Just kidding!" She exclaims, "There is no way I could have figured out that last part. I actually saw it on the news just a bit ago that you caught that mental girl...what was her name? Anne?"

"Annabel," Sherlock corrects coldly. He seems unamused.

"Right. Anyway, I saw that but it didn't seem to add up. There is no way that shabby girl built up this whole scheme on her own. And when I realized you two had come for a visit, there was really only one logical conclusion."

"How did you know it was us?" I ask.

"Why don't you ask detective Spade right next to you, that?" She gestures toward Sherlock. 

I look at him, waiting for him to answer.

"Sam Spade is the main character in the popular mystery novel The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammet," Sherlock explains. 

Then it hits me. No wonder the name was familiar at first. I had read the book once before.

"A hard and shifty fellow, able to take care of himself in any situation, able to get the best of anybody he comes in contact with, whether criminal, innocent by-stander or client," Ms. Eames replies, her tone low and smooth, like that of someone narrating a play. It returns to its usual cadence when she continues, "Or at least, that is how Hammet himself describes him. Although I am sure if Hammet were to describe you, he might use very different wording Mr. Holmes."

"Perhaps," Sherlock answers. His expression is hard to read. I cannot tell if he is offended, annoyed, curious, or all three. "Are you going to let us in?" He asks.

"Ah yes, I suppose I've had my fun," Amelia answers with a smirk, "Alright then come in."


	4. The Reading Room

While I certainly found her humor frustratingly unamusing, I had to admit that Amelia Eames was beginning to show herself to be a bit more than the typical London character as I initially thought. My little test of posing as Sam Spade to see if she could make the connection of a real detective posing as a fictional one proved that much. The question, however, was just how clever was she, exactly? As Watson and I enter her flat, this question hangs in my mind.

When we step inside we are greeted by a rather chaotic living situation. What looks like it was meant to be a very spacious, well-lit, open-concept flat, feels cramped, dark, and confining. This was undoubtedly due to the overwhelming number of books. They were everywhere. Crammed into shelves, spilling out of cardboard boxes, piled on any available flat surface. And there seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to the type of books. Historical, fictional, romance, mystery, even college textbooks, and magazines were strewn about all over the place. Where there weren't books there were other things like newspapers or tabloids, or notebooks, or collections of pens gathered into cups. John Watson's eyes are as big as saucers as he tries not to bump into the stack of reading materials waiting at every turn.

"Sorry about the mess," Amelia apologizes, pushing boxes to the side to make a pathway for us to the couch, "You were right when you said I was a bit too into reading."

"I believe the proper word I used was _obsessed_ ," I reply, unperturbed. 

"Yeah, well I suppose this is all the evidence you need to prove that much," She answers with a breathy laugh. She shoves a pile of books off the couch and onto the floor to make just enough space for John and I. "Here you are. Take a seat, please."

We sit down. Watson makes a look of discomfort and shifts in his spot a few times. He suddenly turns and digs into the seat cushion behind him and pulls out a huge book on the history of the American Civil War. He shows it to me, as if to say "You've got to be joking." I shrug. He places it on the carpet.

"She's crazy, Sherlock," John whispers to me intensely, "Absolute insanity, this is!"

"Well, maybe that's why you like her so much," I shoot back at him.

His cheeks turn red, and he stutters incoherently. Before he can remember how to form a proper sentence, Amelia appears from behind one of the bookshelves closest to the kitchen. She is holding a tray of tea and biscuits. She balances it carefully on the stack of books on the table in front of us, then turns to the armchair across from us and sits down. 

"Alright. What brings you here, then?"

"Is it true that you know The British Library better than anyone?" I ask.

A cocky half-smile appears on her face again, "Did Doris tell you that? She's such a funny old woman," She lets out a chuckle, "I suppose I am, yes. I have worked at that library for a little over five years now. I can tell you where nearly any book can be found, and then some."

"And you also are familiar with the staffing, yes?"

"Hmm, people don't often interest me enough for me to take notice of them," She replies lightly, "Especially when there are so many fascinating books to look at instead. But I suppose I do try to take note of any new staffers. Especially the ones who are always making mistakes. Like putting a damned young adults novel in the historical fiction section." She tsks, as if the thought alone was bothersome to her, and reaches for her cup of tea, "Some people are so carelessly disorganized."

A poorly stacked pile of textbooks suddenly topples over beside her armchair. She sips her tea without a second thought to it.

"Is there anyone who has come on recently that you have reason to be suspicious of? Anyone at all?" I inquire. 

"Well, we really don't get new hires too often. Most of the people who work at the library have been there for ages. Doris especially has been there since the early 80s," She ponders the thought for a few moments, "Although, we do get a lot of different volunteers. High school or college kids typically."

"And none of them have stuck out in any way?" I press further. I am starting to become frustrated. This conversation is going nowhere.

"Sorry, not to me," She shrugs, "As I said before, people aren't really my main interest. The only person I really talk to these days, other than my old high school teacher and my parents, is Doris, and she certainly isn't hiding anything more than a slight nicotine addiction. Though I do suspect she also smoked pot back in the 60s. But I mean, who didn't, right?"

I sigh exasperatedly and get out of my seat and approach one of the windows to think, realizing that I've found myself at a dead end.

"Is he always so...you know?" I hear her whispering to John.

"Unfortunately, yes," He replies tiredly, "And this is him on a good day."

The two of them chuckle.

"I am curious, Dr. Watson-" She begins.

"Please, call me John," He replies, no doubt flashing her a charming smile. 

"Right. John," I can hear her smiling through her words, "I am curious. What were all the clues tying back to The Woman In White mystery?"

"Well, I believe the first was that the victim's ID card was changed to Percy Glyde. We found out that wasn't his real name. And then there was the fact that his wife was having an affair with an art teacher. Sherlock realized that immediately upon meeting her. Then it turns out the body was found across the street from Bethlem Hospital. The asylum. I think that tied in there somewhere..."

I glance over and see her nodding along, and catch a certain glimmer in those cat-like, yellow eyes of hers. It is a curious look. An intense look. I cannot quite decipher it. 

Before I have the time to, however, my phone dings. I pull it out of my pocket and flip it open. It's from Lestrade. The text reads, "Got another one". There is an attachment. I open it and see a picture of a woman's body found on the shoreline. She looks pregnant, and her body and clothes are still wet like she had just recently been pulled out of the river. Another attachment pops up. I open it and see a series of letters, periods, and numbers, written on a concrete wall. I shut my phone.

"Watson, we need to go," I interrupt the two, who seem to have gotten lost in a very amicable discussion.

"Oh, so soon?" He asks.

"There's been another murder," I quickly explain. Then I turn to Amelia, "And we are going to need you to come with us this time."

"Sorry, what?" She replies, eyebrows raised in surprise.

I show her the picture of the numbers. She reads them and an understanding comes across her face.

"Ah, I see then," She answers.

"It seems we will be needing your assistance throughout this case," I state, "and rather than have to come to this mess you call your home, it would be more efficient for you to stick by us until we've solved it."

"Sherlock Holmes asking me for help? Now that's certainly something," She says with a smirk. She gets to her feet and then heads over to the door. "Alright then, I will help you, but I have one condition."

"What's that?" I ask, frowning.

She opens a closet door and takes out a tan trenchcoat, replying, "You must keep a three-foot distance from me at all times."

John looks at her bewilderedly.

"Why?" He asks.

"Isn't it obvious? Your friend already said it the other day. I'm not too comfortable around men. I can tolerate you two, however," She explains matter-of-factly.

She then pulls on her coat and uses the belt on it to tie it tighter around her waist.

"Hold on, you're saying you've just been _tolerating_ us this whole time?" John repeats, no doubt baffled, considering their conversation moments before seemed so pleasant to him.

"Yes, that's what I just said. Didn't I just say that?" She looks at me frowning. I nod, confirmingly.

"And what is it about us, that makes us so tolerable?" He asks, crossing his arms defensively.

That little, sneaky smile lights her face again.

"You two amuse me."

* * *

When we arrive on the scene, the usual crew is waiting for us. Lestrade sees us approach and closes the distance.

"Wait a tick, who's this?" He asks, pointing to Amelia.

She pulls her tan coat around her tighter as if to block off the wind, but no doubt mainly as a defensive reaction. I also notice that she is keeping her distance from us as if there is an invisible wall there. A wall that one would say is about three feet wide.

"Amelia Eames," She replies shortly, stepping back as Lestrade steps closer.

He gives her a weird look.

"She's with us, don't question it," I explain, "Now where is the body?"

"She's already at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, actually," Lestrade replies, "I can show you the scene, though."

He leads us down the rocky slope to the shoreline where there is an area sectioned off by caution tape.

"She was found early this morning by a couple of teenagers who were cutting class to goof off," Lestrade explains, "Saw her washed up on the Thames shoreline and nearly pissed themselves. The cause of death was assumed to be drowning. She was three weeks pregnant. Name is Sally Summers. Her husband and family have already been contacted."

"And the numbers?" I ask.

He directs us under the nearby bridge and points at a wall covered in moss and graffiti. In black spray paint are the same letters and numbers that he sent in his text.

I turn to Amelia.

"Well?" I ask.

"Rebecca," She answers without hesitation.

"Who?" Lestrade asks. 

"Not a who," She replies, "That call number is associated with the book at The British Library titled Rebecca, authored by Dame Daphne du Maurier. It is a popular gothic mystery."

"I-I don't get it," Lestrade stumbles, "What does that have to do with any of this?"

"Not much of a reader, are you?" She asks him. His eyebrows raise at the offensive comment.

"Seriously, who is this girl?" He demands, looking between John and I.

I ignore him and ask Amelia, "And what is the plot of this book? I am not familiar with it."

She takes a breath and then prattles on without a pause, "A young woman, who we never learn the name of, marries a wealthy gentleman by the name of George Fortescue Maximilian de Winter. He is referred to as Maxim throughout the book. Our main character is a naive and timid woman and quickly becomes manipulated and distressed by Maxim's housekeeper Mrs. Danvers. Mrs. Danvers despises the main character because she was obsessed with Maxim's dead wife, Rebecca. Hence the name of the book."

"And what is the big reveal at the end?" I inquire.

"Spoiler alert," Watson mutters.

"Rebecca," Amelia continues, "who is portrayed as this beautiful and wonderful woman by Mrs. Danvers, was actually a very manipulative wife, and Maxim was not in love with her. When she revealed herself to be pregnant with another man's child, Maxim shoots her and has her body disposed of at sea, framing it as a boating accident."

"See the connection now, Lestrade?" I ask, turning to the grey haired Inspector.

"Well sure, she was a pregnant woman who was drowned, just like the story."

I release an annoyed sigh. Of course, he wouldn't see it. I always wonder how on earth London chooses such daft individuals to solve crimes. No wonder they always call for my help.

"We need to head to Bartholomew Hospital immediately," I order, and then turn to leave.

"Wait, that's it?!" Lestrade yells after us, "What is this all about, Holmes?!"

"When I've found out, I'll let you know," I reply calmly.

* * *

Molly removes the sheet off the dead cadaver's face.

"And what did you determine the real cause of death to be, Molly?" I ask.

"Bullet wound. She was shot in the stomach," Molly explains, then she looks somberly downward, "Poor woman. Her baby and her killed at the same time. It is interesting though. She did not show any signs of bloating or too much liquid in her lungs. My guess is she was shot right on the shore and left there."

"Or brought there by someone else," I mutter.

"Huh?" She asks.

"Nothing."

I take out my magnifying glass and examine the body. 

I hear her trying to make light conversation with Watson and Amelia behind me, "So, how, er, have you three become acquainted?"

"Oh, well, Amelia here works at The British Library," John explains.

"Oh, is that so?" She sounds a bit relieved, "Just helping out with the case then, is that it?"

"Of course," Amelia replies, "Otherwise I would not be wasting my time on these two, trust me." 

"Yes, well, lucky that we are so tolerable, right?" John answers, bitterly.

Amelia ignores him.

"So you're Molly, then?" She asks, sounding strangely interested.

"Yes."

"Do you like looking at dead bodies for a living?"

"Uhm, I mean, I don't like it per se-"

"How many dead bodies would you say you see, let's say, in a day?"

"Ah, well it really depends..."

"By the way, I adore your hair, you should really wear it like that often."

"Oh, t-thank you."

"Will you three shut it?!" I demand spinning on them.

They freeze where they are. Amelia is standing extremely close to Molly, reaching out as if about to move the hair out of her eyes. Molly looks uncomfortable yet flattered. Watson is looking on a bit jealously.

"Some of us are trying to _think_ ," I hiss.

I turn back around and think through the clues I've uncovered. Stretch marks on the body show this is not her first child. Molly is right that drowning was not the real cause of death, how the London Police missed that entirely apalls me. She shows no other signs of injury despite that. Her wedding ring appears to be missing.

"Molly, how old would you say this body is?" I ask.

"A few days. Maybe three?" Molly answers.

"Interesting..." I ponder the information I've gathered. I turn to Amelia, "Ms. Eames, you said in the story that the wife's child is not her own?" 

"That is correct," Amelia confirms, "Jack Favell is revealed to be Rebecca's lover, and the child is his."

"And Maxim is the one who really killed her?"

"Yes."

"Then the next step is obvious," I state, tucking my magnifying glass into my coat, "We need to have a little chat with Mr.Summers."

I call up Lestrade right away and ask him to send me directions then hang up. He sends me the address minutes later and Amelia, John, and I leave.

Once outside I call a cab. John and I get inside. Amelia hesitates.

"Come on, not this again. Just get in, would you?" I insist.

She was like this on the way to the river. Ended up choosing to take a separate cab.

"I was not joking about the three feet rule," She replies with a frown. 

"Yes, yes we get it," I express, exhausted by her stubbornness, "Clearly your phobia comes from more than just unwanted attention from men, and stems down to a likely inappropriate encounter with some relative of yours or something similar. But, I promise you, Ms. Eames, neither John nor I are going to try and grope you. Now get _in_."

She scowls back at me but finally relents. Taking off her coat, she uses it as a barrier as she gets in the seat next to me and buckles in. The smell of her vanilla perfume fills my nostrils. She leans into the door so that no part of her is even lightly touching me, which is perfectly fine with me.

Then we ride off.

"Is there anything else you think would be important to know that happens in the novel?" I ask her, my mind stirring with thoughts.

Despite being on the trace of the murderer, we were still being left in the dark about the real mastermind behind things. Just like the last case, I suspect that our killer, who is most likely Mr.Summers if things are meant to line up, is not the real one pulling the strings behind all of this. But at the very least, maybe we can try and get ahead of the real puppetmaster, even if its just a little. To do so, though, we will have to start by playing by _their_ rules. Meaning, we need to know these mystery books they are using for inspiration front and back.

"Lemme think...Mrs. Danvers is the housekeeper, and she regularly torments the main character. She underhandedly tries to convince the main character that she will never be the woman of renown, beauty, or poise that Rebecca was to her."

"This Mrs. Danvers, you said she was obsessed with Rebecca?" I ask. 

"Basically," Amelia answers, "So is pretty much everyone else, aside from Maxim. This eventually isolates the main character."

"What is the main character's name, again?" John pipes up. I roll my eyes. 

"It is never stated," Ms.Eames explains, "It is often suggested that it is something foreign or unusual. But no one ever actually says it."

"The main character is unimportant," I snap, "What is happening right now is clearly meant to reflect the actual climax of the novel when it is revealed that Maxim murdered Rebecca. Those two are the only important characters, and perhaps this Mrs. Danvers if we want to start grasping at straws."

"Maybe..." Amelia begins curiously.

I glance at her. She has a quizzical expression as she stares downward, chewing on the skin of her thumb. She had pushed her glasses onto her head, allowing me to clearly see the wheels turning behind those golden eyes of hers. Such unique eyes they were, indeed. Vibrant yet icy. Sharp, yet soft. They could pull you in so easily with their honey-like shine. No wonder Watson was captivated by her immediately. 

Suddenly, the cabbie takes a sharp turn and drives over the curb. We all are lifted out of our seats and thrown sideways at the sudden shift in gravity. Amelia, who had let go of the grab handle while she was mid-thought, bumps into me, and instinctively grabs my arm.

"Hey watch the road, would you!?" Watson shouts. And starts bickering back and forth with the driver.

I look at Amelia, who, despite all her efforts moments prior, is suddenly incredibly close. Her eyes, usually so narrow, are suddenly wide with shock. Her vanilla perfume overwhelms my senses, and I am all too aware of how tightly she is gripping my arm. But, it takes only a second before she realizes our position, and she quickly lets go of my arm and presses herself back against the door, holding her hands protectively against her chest.

I clear my throat and fix my sleeve as if it had been nothing at all. 

"You were saying?" I ask, trying to brush the shadow of her grip from my arm.

"W-what?" She replies, confused.

"You said 'maybe' and then trailed off, like there was something on your mind," I state simply.

"Oh...yes that's right. Well, it is a bit concerning," She answers, suddenly looking nervous.

"What's that?"

"Well, you said what is happening right now is meant to reflect the climax of the novel. And in the climax Mrs. Danvers burns down Manderley, the mansion where everyone is staying. You don't suppose that..."

She trails off again, her eyes suddenly wide as she stares out the window. Our cab has come to a halt.

"Good God..." Watson whispers beside me.

It does not take a genius to know what has captured their attention. We all hurry out of the cab as if our eyes have been decieved, but once we are out it only makes what is before us become more real.

There in front of us is a pillar of smoke and flame, consuming a gorgeous victorian-style home. The Summers home, to be exact.


	5. The Englishmen

"Causation seems to be tampered wiring," Lestrade announces as we stand outside the charred remains of the Summers estate.

The smell of smoke and ash still hangs in the air. Lestrade's team arrived shortly after the fire brigade put everything out. Fortunately, Mr. Summers and his kids were found not home when the fire happened. Their maid, Mrs. Daley, however, was home. She escaped in time and was the first one to call 911. Shortly after we came onto the scene, Mr. Summers and his family arrived as well.

"We are interrogating the maid now," Lestrade explains, gesturing behind him towards a rail-thin, older woman with a gaunt expression sitting on the back of the ambulance.

"She didn't do it," Sherlock quips knowingly.

"What makes you so certain?" Lestrade asks skeptically.

"She has no motive, and why would she let herself be caught so easily?" He sharply answers, then mutters so low only I catch it, “It is obvious this is another trick of our puppetmaster."

"Puppetmaster? What on earth are you talking about?" I ask bemused.

Lestrade looks up from his notepad curiously.

Sherlock makes a face as if he made a slip of the tongue.

"Never you mind," He says and starts walking towards the house, his coat whipping behind him.

I sigh and turn to face Amelia, about to make a negative comment about my less than amiable companion, but see she is no longer next to me like she was only minutes ago. I turn left and right, searching for where on earth she could have gone. I finally spot her crouched down in the dirt, in front of a small pond that was part of the estate. I approach her carefully. As I get closer I see she is staring at something that it seems she had picked out of the mud. It's a little figurine made of china. 

"What's that?" I ask, watching her turn it in her hands.

"I'm not sure," She replies, staring at the figurine, "I came over here to look for some clue and found it stuck in the mud right here."

I lean in closer to get a better look. The figurine is a little English gentleman with coattails and a top hat. He has a curled mustache painted on his face. 

Amelia clears her throat loudly, “Sorry, but could you move back a bit, please? Three-foot rule and all that, you know.”

“Right, sorry,” I step backward apologetically and nearly bump into Sherlock who has suddenly appeared nearby. I start at the sight of him being so close when he was elsewhere just moments ago.

"Hmm, now that is interesting," He observes. 

"Can you _not_ do that?" I stress.

"May I see that, Amelia?" Sherlock inquires, again paying me no mind.

She hands it to him, and he turns it in his hands as well.

"It's not an expensive china, from the looks of it," Amelia comments.

"No, it's not," Sherlock confirms, examining every inch of the little doll, "Where did you find this, exactly?"

Amelia points to a spot near the water. Sherlock follows her gesture and looks down into the pond. He reaches in and pulls something out. It looks like two more figurines. One is is much tinier than the other two.

”Very, very interesting,” He muses to himself, “Anything about something like this in those books of yours, Amelia?”

Amelia ponders for a few moments and then gives up. She shakes her head regretfully.

”Sorry, nothing comes to mind.”

”Maybe they were just left there by the children,” I offer, “You could ask them. It looks like they've all finished talking to Lestrade."

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Sherlock mutters.

With that, the three of us head over to the ambulance, where the Summers children were now sitting wrapped in a thick blanket. There were three children. One was a girl who looked around the age of twelve, and then two little boys who were about 5 and 7. The youngest was shivering, his head resting against his older sister's shoulder, whose cheeks were red and tear-stained.

Sherlock holds the figurines in front of them. 

"Do you recognize these?"   
  
The children look at him with confused and slightly scared expressions. 

“Come now, Sherlock, have a little tact, would you? They’re children,” I scold. 

I crouch down so I’m at eye level with the kids. 

“Hello, my name is Dr.Watson. We were curious if you could tell us whose toys these are?”

The three children exchange glances. After a few moments the young girl pipes up, “We don’t have any toys like that. Mother and father don’t like us playing with anything that could break.”

”Ah I see, thank you,” I get up and look to Amelia and Sherlock, “I guess that answers that.”

The three of us are about to leave when we catch something the children are telling each other.

“Do you think mother will be cross when she gets back?” The seven-year-old asks his sister softly.

”Probably, you know how upset she gets when the house is messy. I think this is like that,” The sister answers.

”I don’t want mum and dad to fight again,” The littlest one comments sadly.

”They’ve fought three times this week already! I’ve been counting,” The seven-year-old states, sounding a bit proud of himself for keeping track.

“Sissy, I thought you said that man was supposed to help them stop fighting?” The five-year-old mentions.

”Maybe he isn’t good at his job,” The middle brother comments matter of factly.

”But mum and dad said he was very expensive! Mum always said the more expensive something is, the better it is at doing what it should.”

”How do you know he was expensive?” The middle brother asks.

”I remember hearing them argue about it,” She replies.

Amelia, Sherlock, and I pass curious looks after hearing this exchange go on. Sherlock suddenly approaches the children again. This time he makes a note of crouching down in front of them as I had.

”Did your parents fight a lot?” He asks.

The three nod aggressively.

”Almost every day!” the youngest bursts.

”It’s rather annoying,” The middle one sulks.

”They were getting better for a bit, but now it seems worse than before,” The sister explains.

”You said something about a man helping them? Do you know who he is?”

”Mum said he was some sort of count,” The middle boy supplies.

”She didn’t call it that you dummy!” The sister interrupts, scolding her brother, “She said he was a count...erm...a count seller.”

”A counseler?” Sherlock offers.

”Yes!”

”That’s what I said!” The brother shouts.

”You did not,” The sister argues.

”Did too!”

”Did not!”

“Did too!!”

”Hey, what’s going on here?”

A squirrelly looking man steps in. He has a balding head of hair and a pair of round glasses that won’t stay on his nose. Dark circles trace beneath tired-looking eyes.  
  
The kids instantly stop their bickering, looking guilty.

”Dad, is mum gonna be mad when she gets back?” The youngest asks innocently.

The father's face is difficult to read. It’s a dark look, with a mix of hurt, uneasiness, and something else that I could not discern.

”Never you mind about that. Grandma is here to take you three to her house. You’ll be spending the weekend there.”

The three children’s eyes light up.

“Really?!” The middle brother exclaims excitedly.

”Yes, now hurry along. The officers said you can go now.” 

Without hesitation, the three children get up and rush over to an old woman standing nearby who arrived only a few moments prior.

The man lets out a long sigh. Then he turns to look us, suspicion in his eyes.

”Who are you and why were you talking to my kids?” He asks with a scowl. 

“Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answers, unfazed, "and these are my associates Dr. John Watson and Ms. Amelia Eames. We are detectives looking into the murder of your wife, Sally Summers.”   
  
For a split moment, I see something that looks like trepidation enter Mr. Summers' eyes. But it is quickly gone and fades instead into somberness and guilt.

“I see...I-I haven’t had the heart to tell the kids about Sally yet,” He confesses to the three of us, “I was going to today but now this...it’s just a lot for such young ones to take in. I don’t even know if I have fully taken it all in myself. Even hearing it said out loud...”

He trails off and suddenly falls into a fit of sobbing.

The three of us exchange awkward glances as we watch this man break down in front of us.

I clear my throat and nudge Holmes.

"Er, Sherlock, I think it would be unwise to press a man who is still grieving," I offer quietly.

Sherlock ignores me and without even a hint of empathy asks the distraught Mr. Summers, ”About you and your wife, is it true you hired a counselor for your frequent arguing?” 

"Yep, that is the exact opposite of what I said you should do," I comment under my breath.

The man looks surprised that Sherlock knew this, “W-who told you that?”

”Your children made a mention of it,” He answers, “As to why a wealthy family of three with another on the way was having marital troubles, that is easy to deduce. A wife who far exceeds her husband in looks and is significantly younger than him, and a husband who lacks self-respect and confidence. Undoubtedly you are one who has let your wife walk all over him from the start. My guess is you reached a point of being fed up by your wife’s demands, who clearly only married you for the money, and started fighting back.”

I now turn my muttering to Amelia, "Really, his complete lack of tactfulness is incredible. Isn't it?" 

She smirks ruefully.

Mr. Summers has an expression of shock and anger. He sputters incoherently. Before he can come up with a response Sherlock is already pressing him with more questions.

”How long had you two been seeing a counselor, Mr. Summers?"

"T-two years now," He stammers still flustered.

"And I take it meeting with them did not improve things much?"

Mr. Summers' expression suddenly twists into anger, "He was a waste of money! He practically would insult me to my face during our sessions! Not to mention the fact that he-"

He stops himself, hands clenched into fists.

"What? He what?" Sherlock urges.

"It's none of your business! I'm sick of talking about this with every damned person that comes up to me! My wife's dead, my house has burned to a crisp, my children think I'm some sort of tyrant," He is shouting now, "People like you disgust me! You're just like him!"

"Like your counselor?" Sherlock is the picture of calm, even as people are starting to pass us curious glances from hearing Mr. Summers' sudden outburst.

"I don't want to think about that damned snake ever again," Mr. Summers seethes. 

"Why? What did he do?" Sherlock still presses.

"He slept with my wife!"

Utter silence seems to fall around us following Mr. Summers' accusation. Tears start to pour down his cheeks again. Unable to hold himself up he collapses onto the seat on the back of the ambulance where his children had been only moments prior. A concerned medical worker approaches us.

"Is everything alright?" She asks. 

Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets, unsympathetically. 

"I think this man could use one of those blankets," He states simply.

Then he turns and begins walking away. Amelia and I pass uneasy glances and then hurry after him.

* * *

The three of us found ourselves back at Sherlock's flat. Holmes and I are sitting across from one another, each with a cup of tea in hand. Amelia, however is browsing the bookshelf by the window.

"You are quite fond of the subject of chemistry, are you Mr. Holmes?" Amelia inquires, pulling a large textbook on organic chemistry from the shelf.

"Quite," Holmes answers, "Anything that will help with my work, I read up on. You would be surprised by the number of cases where knowledge on the topic has found itself to be quite useful."

"Yet not a single fiction book," She notes a bit cheekily. 

"Fiction is of little use in my line of work," Sherlock replies coldly raising his cup to his lips.

"Until now, that is," She answers.

Sherlock's cup freezes at his lip, clearly at a loss for how to respond.

I cannot help but chuckle, "She's got you there."

I can see her trying to stifle a smug grin as she flips through the chemistry book. 

"And here I thought having one of you kind was exhaustive," Sherlock quips sardonically.

"Oh Sherlock, be nice!" Mrs. Hudson shrilly reprimands as she bustles into the room with a tray of biscuits, "It does you no good being rude when you have such a lovely guest here." She looks right at Amelia with a broad smile.

Mrs. Hudson took an immediate liking to the young woman after she complimented the landlady's dress and politely asked if she could help make the tea.

"Well, I find you quite lovely as well Mrs. Hudson," I reply jokingly.

"Hush, I wasn't talking about you," She scolds. She holds the tray out to Amelia, "I made these fresh, you must try them, Amelia."

Amelia smiles back at her and gratefully takes a sugar-coated biscuit from the top, "Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson. You are too kind."

"Oh it's nothing," Mrs. Hudson blushes, then turns to us with a scowl, "You earned it after having to deal with these two troublemakers. I hope they aren't causing you too much of a headache."

"Now Mrs. Hudson, you speak too lowly of us," Sherlock insists sarcastically.

"Hmph! I ought to speak lower! Dragging a young lady like this around to look at dead bodies and interrogate criminals. It is hardly gentlemanly!"

"Come now Mrs. Hudson, you of all people should understand that a woman is not as delicate as she seems from the outside," Holmes returns, setting his tea down.

She shushes him sharply. Then again beams at Amelia, "Pay him no mind, my dear. If you need anything at all, do not hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Amelia answers kindly.

With that, the old woman hurries back into the kitchen, no doubt about to whip up a full course meal for her new favorite guest. 

"Don't look so dejected, John, she still likes you too," Sherlock comments, smirking at me.

"Well, I can always take comfort knowing she'll always like me more than you," I quip. He chuckles. 

"Sooo, what exactly is it we are waiting for?" Amelia asks. 

I make an uncertain face, realizing I had no clue what the answer was. I direct the question back at Sherlock, "Yes, what are we waiting for?"

Before Sherlock can even open his mouth to answer we both hear his phone chime. He pulls it from his pocket to look.

He answers calmly, "A confession."


	6. The Waiting Period

Amelia, John, and I stand on the other side of the double glass and stare into the interrogation room. Inside is Mr. Summers sobbing hysterically.

Lestrade explained things briefly over text, and to little surprise, the events unfolded precisely as I had predicted. Mr. Summers was quickly picked out as a suspect for the murder of Sally Summers. After only an hour of the interrogation, he finally broke and confessed to shooting his wife in the stomach with his own handgun.

Evidently, after his confession he broke down in tears and hasn't stopped since. They haven't been able to get much out of him beyond that. 

"Well, this is a familiar sight, isn't it?" John quips as we watch the pitiful display before us, "I suppose he really was the culprit as you said in the cab."

"Just like Maxim in the novel," Amelia adds.

"Even taking out the angle of things aligning with the book, it was so painfully obvious that a child could have figured it out," I explain, "One would only need to find the gun poorly buried in the dirt by the front door to discover as much. He clearly held a lot of resentment towards his wife. And due to his heavy stimulant abuse, which any medical professional would be quick to notice, it was only a matter of time before he was lead to such a drastic measure. I do not doubt that the reason for the spat this time was when he found out the child was not his."

"Stimulant abuse?" John repeats my statement as a question.

"Hair loss, clear signs of severe weight loss and lack of sleep, sweating, intense mood swings and aggression, all are definitive signs of stimulant abuse," I explain, "My guess is cocaine, which he would have easy access to as someone with his high status."

"Right," John replies, though his slightly confused expression tells me he is still trying to process things, "What now then?"

"What now indeed," I mutter. 

Yes, another murder was 'solved' so to speak. But, our overarching case had made minor progress. The fact that both Sally's and Richard Ambridge's murders came to the same conclusion only further confirms that there is a connection between the two. However, it does not explain who set their home on fire, who is leaving behind all the clues connecting both murders to mystery novels, nor any of the leftover questions from Richard Ambridge's case. Mr. Summers had yet to admit to whether he had left Sally's body by the Thames or not. My guess was he didn't. Not to mention...

I reach into my pocket and feel the cold material of the three little Englishmen made of china. I had yet to figure out how they fit into everything, but I knew they were not left outside the home by accident.

I just happen to glance at Amelia as I'm sorting through these things. She is looking at me with a curious expression. Her gold eyes flashed behind the lenses of her glasses. As to what she was thinking I could not tell if it was about the case, or about me.

"Do you suppose the marriage counselor had any involvement with things?" She asks me suddenly.

It is a question I had already asked myself previously. I frown.

"If he did, that would undoubtedly either make him the puppetmaster himself, or one of his pawns," I answer, "Though I hesitate that he would be so sloppy to let something so obvious be the case."

"Perhaps we should pay him a visit, either way?" Watson suggests, "Maybe he will have some sort of clue for us."

"Don't bother, we've already done a background check on him," Anderson interrupts. 

He approaches the three of us and leans against the wall, attempting to appear cool and collected. Though his frail frame and sallow, yet ever punchable face, fail to allow him to achieve such an effect.

"Oh good, you're here," I comment sarcastically, "You're actually doing your job half-decently now, I see?"

He scowls at me. 

"Their marriage counselor, Dr. Kamil, is as squeaky clean as they come," Donovan cuts in, stepping forward as well.

"Ah yes, I seemed to have forgotten you two are some sort of package deal," I note.

"You're such a d-" Donovan starts, but John pipes up.

"Wait, so he didn't sleep with Mrs. Summers?"

"Oh no, he definitely did that," Donovan answers bluntly, "But she would be the first. Dr. Kamil himself is single and actually has since closed down his practice not long after the affair occurred. Said something about the guilt leading him to never want to even give free advice to a married couple."

"Even if you wanted to see him you would be hard-pressed," Anderson adds, "He left to visit family in India a week and a half ago and won't be back till sometime next month."

"A solid alibi," Amelia murmurs.

"Hold on, who is this? What's she doing here?" Donovan asks, pointing an accusatory finger at the young woman.

"Another one of your lackeys?" Anderson sneers.

"She's a friend," John Watson replies, stepping forward in Amelia's defense. Ever the gentleman.

"I'm just a librarian," She states lightly, feigning ignorance.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends," Donovan snidely remarks, "If you're one of his fangirls I would caution you to stay far away. It's only a matter of time before he'll be sitting in that chair right there."

She nods her head towards where Mr. Summers is seated. 

"What exactly are you implying?" John asks. Though it is less a question and more an accusation. 

"Whatever it is, we don't have time to entertain much more banter," I step in, adjusting my coat, "Always a pleasure, Donovan. Not so much for you, Anderson."

I then turn to leave, the two detectives' glares boring into me from behind. Amelia and John follow.

"You don't still think there's more to this than the obvious do you?" Donovan calls out to us once we are at the doors.

I stop and face her.

"The fact that what you find to be 'obvious' is so evidently false tells me more than enough about the state of New Scotland Yard. Though I cannot say I'm surprised," I retort, "Just wait, before long there will be another murder. And when there is, you might start to think differently."

* * *

"So when you said 'before long there will be another murder' back then, I take it you actually meant quite long indeed?" John's tone drips with satire. 

I simply frown at him.

"Oh please, quit your brooding," He scolds, then continues to munch on his plate of chips.

The two of us are seated in a booth at the back of a small pub. Two full weeks have passed since the last murder, and I had to admit it was starting to put me on edge.

I had gone through the links between the past two murders several times in my mind, but the few connections I found only led to dead ends. Both Richard Ambridge and Sally Summers came from wealthy backgrounds but their social circles were on completely different ends of the spectrum. They held no shared family members or friends. They didn't work in similar fields. They lived on opposite ends of London. Nothing about their lives, personalities, spouses, or other matched or even came close to crossing one another. The only other worthy link I noted, aside from the connections to two mystery novels, was that both cases involved some sort of infidelity. However, it was not as if the infidelity was with the same individual, nor did it play out similarly across both incidences. Without a third case to share that thread, it looked more like a simple coincidence. Nonetheless, I held onto it, certain that there had to be more than that. 

"It is curious isn't it?" I muse aloud, "While there is certainly a connection between these mystery novels and the murders, things are not in perfect alignment. There are several characters, events, and results that don't make them a picture-perfect match."

"That doesn't seem strange to me," Watson replies simply, "It would be quite difficult to do that wouldn't it? I mean, to make something match that perfectly would practically require mind control."

"That may be the case, but it begs the question as to why even involve such books in the first place? Why not just conduct the murders normally?"

"Perhaps he wanted to add a twist. Isn't that what crazy murderers do? Try to make things more interesting?" He offers. Then he makes a funny face as if confused by his own words, "Although, should we really call him a murderer? I mean, he didn't exactly kill those people. Just somehow set the scenes up the way he wanted them to look."

"A murderer is a murderer," I return, "Whether he commits the act himself, or leads someone else to. While our puppetmaster is not one to get his hands dirty, it does not change the severity of his crimes."

"Why do you keep calling him that?" John asks.

"Calling him what?"

"The puppetmaster. Where did that come from?"

I shrug, "Just made it up. Seemed fitting."

"Hm...alright then."

The two of us then sit a few moments in silence, listening to the chatter filling the pub.

I take the opportunity to conduct a regular mental exercise of mine, giving my brain some rest from the mystery at hand. Allowing my ears to catch onto a few conversations, and observing our surroundings, I start to form my deductions about the individuals inside the pub.

First, I grasp onto the conversation of two gossiping old women in the booth next to us. Not much of interest there aside from the fact that they were clearly trying to passive-aggressively one up each other by way of listing their grandchildren's recent achievements. Both felt highly competitive with one another for a long time, worsened by their old age and failing memories.

My eyes then look to the counter near the front of the pub where a much more unique drama revealed itself. Behind the counter was a man with a bit of wiry scruff upon his ragged face, and tattoos along his arms. The tattoos were arbitrary designs, no doubt chosen with little intentional thought behind them. It was obvious by the indentation around his ring finger that he had been recently divorced. His recent split must have had something to do with the coworker cleaning mugs behind the bar, who he was clearly hooking up with in private. This was obvious from the way the man lightly brushed the man's lower back when passing to help a new customer who had just walked in.

My attention shifts to the customer as he seats himself on one of the beaten barstools. An average, middle-aged looking fellow. Single. A bit awkward. The only notable thing about him is the magazine in his hands which has a small picture of Dr. Watson and I on the front. I lower my head, hoping he doesn't look our way at any point.

I sigh, already bored by my own exercise. 

"Shall we head out now?" John asks, pulling on his jacket.

Evidently, he had paid for our meal while I was lost in my observations.

I nod in agreement and the two of us get up to leave.

I step outside first and practically knock a woman over who was just about to enter the pub. She yelps and I steady both her and myself by grabbing onto her shoulders. I quickly let go when I see who it is.

"Goodness, I'm so sorr-" She stops when she notices the two of us. Her surprise suddenly turns to a familiar teasing grin, "Oh? Are you two out on a date?"

"Yes, actually. Jealous we left you out, Amelia?" John returns sarcastically.

"Well, I will admit, I have been a bit lonely without your company these past few weeks," Amelia answers feigning disappointment. 

John chuckles. I roll my eyes.

"How are you these days, Mr. Holmes?" She asks peering through her tortoiseshell glasses at me, that half-mocking smile still set on her face.

"Bored," I answer coolly. She seems to be trying to hold back a laugh. Suddenly, a thought springs to mind, "Actually, Ms. Eames, I have a proposition for you."

She cocks her head, curiosity glinting in those yellow eyes of hers, "And what might that be?"

"I need you to give me a list of all the mystery or detective novels you know of which involve some sort of infidelity. Regardless of whether it is part of the main plotline or not."

This time she can't hold back her laugh, "Ha! Well, it's quite funny that you ask that...."

She digs into her coat pocket and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper and hands it to me. I unfold it to find it is a list of book titles, authors, and their library call numbers. Watson and I mirror an expression of surprise.

"I have been musing over the case myself the past two weeks and noticed that link as well," She explains, "I just made that list yesterday and was thinking of stopping by to hand it to you, but it seems fate thought the sooner the better."

John cracks a smile and chuckles, "Well, isn't that something?" 

I clear my throat, "Right, well...thank you."

She smirks in reply, "Of course, Mr. Holmes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm supposed to meet someone and I'm running a bit late. Nice to see you both."

With that she enters the pub, leaving the two of us on the pavement. Watson looks at me with a funny expression.

"What?" I ask frowning.

"I think you may have finally met your match, Sherlock," He quips teasingly.

I scoff, "Please, it was an obvious link. Anyone else could have caught it."

"Is that so?"

He looks at me as if to say he doesn't buy it.

I shove the paper into my pocket. 

"Let's head back."

I start on my way towards Baker street. John follows quickly after me.

"Oh, that's all you have to say?" He asks as we walk down the sidewalk.

I don't answer him.

"The great Sherlock Holmes...I suppose you are not always one step ahead as you always like to think you are, huh?"

"Oh, shut it."

* * *

We arrive back at 221B Baker Street. John sits in his chair, and I sit at my desk and open up my computer.

"What are you doing?" He asks.

"Buying a few books," I answer. 

I pull out the list Amelia had given me and get to work. 

After a few minutes has passed, John restlessly gets up from his chair and observes the mantle. He picks up one of the little Englishmen made of china that I had placed there.

"Why did you keep these? Do you think they mean anything?" He asks.

"That is a riddle for another day," I reply, barely looking up from my computer.

I furiously type into the search engine on my screen, pulling up different tabs of reviews, excerpts, and online articles about the books that Amelia listed in her note. 

Suddenly, I hear a harsh CRASH. 

I spin to look and see Watson staring at the ground with an expression of shock and remorse. The Englishman that was in his hands moments prior was on the ground, completely shattered.

"I-I'm so sorry, it slipped when I went to put it back. I don't kn-" His hurried apology suddenly halts, and a confused expression crosses his face, "Hold on..."

He leans down and reaches into the scattered remains of the china figurine. From the cracked pieces he pulls out a white slip of paper, the size of that which you would see in a fortune cookie.

I leap out of my chair and cross to his side of the room. I peer over his shoulder and look at what was written on the piece of paper. It's the number 10.

I yank the piece of paper out of his hands and hold it up to the light. 

"Very curious..." I mutter.

I quickly move closer to the mantle and pick up one of the other china figurines. With a swift motion, I crack the neck of the doll onto the mantle and its head snaps off. I tilt the body upside down and another piece of paper flutters out. I grab it before it falls to the floor and read it. It has a number nine.

I do the same to the smallest figurine and find the number eight written on the paper wedged inside. 

"What do you suppose that means?" Watson asks, looking at the three papers in my hand.

I stare a the papers with a dark expression.

"I'm not sure..."

Before Watson can say anything my phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket. It's a text from Amelia.

"Hold on, when did you get her number?" Watson asks, apalled when he sees the name pop up on my screen.

"She wrote it on the note she gave me," I reply casually.

"Wait, what? She slid you her number on a piece of paper?" 

"It's not what you think," I answer, rolling my eyes.

"Uh-huh. Sure..." Watson eyes me. I see a bit of envy in his expression.

I scoff, "Please, you know me, John. I have no interest nor time for that sort of thing."

He laughs scornfully, "Oh I know that. Which is precisely why it is entirely unfair that _you_ of all people get to receive such attention from beautiful women that you have zero interest in pursuing. Surely you remember everything that happened last time?"

"I prefer not to drudge up the past, John," I reply coldly, knowing he is referring to a certain dominatrix from a previous case.

I open up the text from Ms. Eames. It's a photo attachment. I look closely at the photo. It's the DVD of an old black and white movie titled _The Postman Always Rings Twice_.

Her text that follows reads, "Up for a movie night?" 

Watson reads the text before I can hide it from him.

"Entirely unfair..." He mutters.


	7. The Postman Always Rings Twice

"It's not a date," I insist for the third time.

Not long after the text from Amelia, Watson began grilling me on what he referred to as "proper date etiquette". To which I replied the same words. When he insisted it was, I again refused. To which he could only shake his head in utter exasperation.

"Let's see, you're watching a movie with a beautiful woman, who is single, alone together. That sounds like a date to me."

"She never said it had to be alone," I deny, "Why would a woman who is so clearly averse to being within arm's length of a man, then ask one on a date?"

He huffs, "Well...maybe she doesn't see you like that anymore. You're certainly not like most men."

"Oh, John, you flatter me," I mock in return, my expression dipping to a scowl.

Before he can retort, another text chimes in. I look at it for a moment then turn it towards my companion.

"See?"

He reads Amelia's follow up response, "Found it at my door with no return address. I have a sense it has something to do with the case."

"Not a date," I state again, pulling the phone away and shoving it into my pocket.

"Alright fine..." He relents, raising his hands up in surrender.

I glance over at the wall across the room from the two of us and frown. I look at John again.

"You wouldn't happen to own a DVD player, would you?"

* * *

Once Watson left to retrieve his DVD player from home, I enlisted Mrs. Hudson's help in arranging the television in the living room for a better viewing experience. 

"Suddenly in the mood for a movie, is that it?" She asks as she untangles the cables and cords.

"Something like that," I answer as I balance the flatscreen on the table in front of the couch.

"Anyone coming to join?" She asks.

"Yes, John is," I reply.

"And?" 

I clear my throat, "Ahem, well it would seem Amelia is stopping by as well. It was her idea, actually."

"Is that so?" She answers.

I glance over my shoulder and see her pretending to pay me no mind as she plugs in the cords. I am quick to see through her act. Her sly tone was enough to give her away.

"Oh please, not you too. Are you going to try and claim this is some sort of date as well?"

"I said nothing of the sort," She answers, shaking her head innocently. 

I wait to see what she will say next.

"Although," She begins, "She is a very lovely young woman. Very attractive. Very polite. You two would be a fair match in many ways if you were to ask me. Plus you have the same glint in your eyes."

"Glint?"

"You know, a sort of...earnest expression. Like there is something you're intensely seeking. Some sort of fix you are in need of."

"What type of fix, are you referring to?" I inquire. 

"Oh, I don't know about that. It could be any number of things," She replies waving her hand at the question. She then crosses the room and gives me a light pat on the shoulder, "Though I can tell you one thing for certain: I know an addict when I see one." She then walks into the kitchen and pulls on the sliding door as if to close it, but after a pause adds, "And I'm not just talking about drugs, you know."

With that, she slides the door shut, leaving me to mull over her words in private.

I do not get to think for long however, when I hear a knock at the door. When I see Mrs. Hudson is in no rush to answer, I get up and open it myself. It is Amelia.

She is dressed in all black today. Black cardigan, black skirt, black pantyhose, black heels. Only a speck of white from her buttoned-up shirt peeking out above where her cardigan’s buttons end. Even her earrings and nails are black. With those bright yellow eyes of her, she gives me the impression of a black cat staring up at me from the hall.

"Fancy seeing you here," She comments with her cheshire grin. She looks inside curiously, "Is Dr. Watson not joining us?"

"He will be soon," I am quick to answer, "But, I have set everything else up in the meantime."

"Ah, I see. Well then, you don't suppose I could browse your bookshelf again as I wait, would you?" 

I see a sparkle of anticipation in her eyes. Like a kid who just asked if they could take an early peek at their Christmas gifts. I cannot bring myself to refuse it.

"Does not matter to me," I answer, and let her in.

She is at the bookshelf in a heartbeat, scanning the shelves for anything of interest. I, meanwhile, sit at my chair and pick up the book on the table beside me, allowing myself to be lost in the pages.

“Do you know why I love reading so much, Mr.Holmes?” Amelia asks suddenly. 

“Because you find people terribly boorish,” I answer, not giving her the satisfaction of looking up.

She laughs, “ I said why I, not you.”

I don't entertain her with an answer.

“I love to read,” She continues, though I pretend to be focused on my book, “Because humans are so incredibly predictable. They have all the answers written so clearly in their expressions, their clothing, their little ticks, and so on. But with a truly good book, you only know what the author wants you to know,” I can hear her pulling books off the shelves and flipping through them, “There are no conclusions to be made unless the author wants you to make conclusions. No secrets to uncover until the author uncovers them. No lies to catch unless the author flips truth on its head. You are utterly, and completely, at the mercy of the writer's hand. A total stranger you don’t even know, nor ever will know..."

I glance over and see that she is suddenly crouched beside my chair, peering at me through those sharp, cat-like eyes of hers.

Her voice softens and caresses my ear, "Isn't that fascinating?"

I snap the book I am holding shut and study her expression, trying to understand why she is so clearly breaking her own rule. I quickly rationalize that she is at ease only because the arm of my chair is acting as a barrier between us. However, I cannot read her expression clearly. It is set in that harlequin smile of hers. Nonetheless, I know there is something else going on in her mind. Some type of game she is playing with me. Is she trying to intimidate me? Seduce me? Confuse me? Perhaps all three...

No, that’s not it. She is doing even worse, I realize.

She’s making fun of me.

“Your jokes do not amuse me, Ms. Eames,” I comment, coolly, returning my attention to the book in my hands.

She laughs and steps away from the armchair, disrupting a tension I only notice once it’s broken.

“Perhaps not,” She chirps, retreating to the bookcase again, "But your reaction is always such a treat,” She puts on a mocking male accent and mimics, “Your jokes do not amuse me, Ms.Eames’ haha! You are so unbelievably entertaining Mr. Holmes.”

Now she definitely is making fun of me. Before I can retort, however, we both hear a knock at the door. John Watson comes flying in hardly a moment later, DVD player in hand.

"Well, then, shall we get started?" He asks.

* * *

The three of us are seated on the couch together, and it reminds me of when we were driving to the Summers home a few weeks ago. John and I are a comfortable distance away from one another, and Ms. Eames is on my left-hand side, as far away as she can possibly be by curling herself up inside the corner where the arm and back cushion meet. 

It is a bit of dichotomy about her, I note. She can be so bold in her teasing of people, as well as seemingly comfortable if there is some sort of immoveable object between her and a male. But when there is an open space, she suddenly shrinks into herself. As if the open space itself was an invitation for her personal space to be violated. I wonder what event occurred exactly that led her to be so distrusting towards men.

I shake away my musings. I needed to focus on the TV right now. If this film was some sort of clue to what is to come, I had to be prepared to pick out every necessary detail. I watch closely as the title screen appears.

The film is a typical movie from the era it came out of. While I was expecting some type of murder mystery, or gothic thriller like the two books, I am surprised to find it is more of an intense drama. Something my brother Mycroft would likely enjoy. Cora Smith and Frank Chambers are star crossed lovers who form an affair, despite Cora's marriage to a diner owner named Nick Smith. The two concoct a plot to murder Cora's husband in cold blood but fail. They then hatch a second plan to stage a drunk driving accident and succeed. Cora is accused of the murder, and receives probation. The two get married to further hide their crime, Frank cheats on Cora, Cora finds out. So on and so forth. It was so boorishly predictable. In the end, Frank accidently kills Cora in a car accident and is executed for murder. 

By the time the movie comes to a close, I have formulated a few potential ideas as to what our puppetmaster's next move is. I am anxious to share them with John, but discover he has fallen asleep. I try to prod him, but he is completely out.

I then turn to Amelia. She lets out a long yawn.

"Are you certain this has to do with our case?" I whisper to her, careful not to wake Watson.

"I don't know why else it would be at my door," She replies quietly, "I've told you before I don't interact with many people. Let alone any who would think a movie would be a fitting surprise gift for me. How they found out I was working with you two is a bit disconcerting I'll admit."

"They could have spotted you easily without our notice when we found Sally Summer's body," I muse aloud, "Or perhaps they were hiding in the crowd when we arrived at the Summer's home."

She nods. I see a bit of concern fall across her face. It is a stark contrast to her usual sly, teasing, and humorous expressions.

"You should stay here tonight," I state.

She looks at me in surprise. It is hard to tell with only the glow of the screen in front of us, but I think I see her cheeks redden. However, she is quick to recover with her usual joking tone.

"My, that is quite forward of you, Mr. Holmes."

"I refuse to let a young woman walk the streets of London alone at night. Especially one whose address is evidently known by a possible serial murderer," I answer.

Plus, if I did so, Mrs. Hudson would never let me hear the end of it.

"And here I thought you detested me," She answers. 

"I do not detest you," I reply, rising to my feet, "Though your humor annoys me to no end, and your smugness constantly rubs me the wrong way-"

"Well, now, don't be so polite about it," She cuts in with a dark chuckle.

"I will admit that you are...useful."

She raises an eyebrow at me, "Useful?"

"You can take the bedroom," I offer, ignoring her questioning of the term. I gesture to the room down the hall. 

"And where will you sleep?" She asks.

"I have my methods," I answer simply. 

She gets up as well and starts toward the door then pauses, glancing down at her clothes.

"Erm, I don't suppose you have any pajamas I could borrow?"

I head into my room and pull out a pair of plaid pajama pants that were too small for me now, and a T-shirt I never wore and place them into Amelia's arms. I wait to hear her make a witty or teasing comment, but I am surprised to hear her just say a polite and simple, "Thank you."

She stands in the doorway, studying me for a moment. I don't know why I wait. It would have been easy for me to turn and leave her there after giving her what she needed. But I found myself rooted in place, waiting for her next words. Perhaps, I was simply tired. Or perhaps, I had found my attention locked onto those golden eyes of hers. Momentarily captivated by their brightness and warmth.

No, certainly I was just tired.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," She says. 

She smiles at me. Again I am taken aback by this new expression. For this time it is a soft and genuine smile. Not like her usual mocking or joking grin. There was something almost soothing about it. In fact, even I could admit it was rather...pretty.

"Goodnight, Ms. Eames," Is my simple response. 

She then closes the door, and I walk off to make a bed for myself.


	8. The Diner

I awoke with a start, snapping immediately into consciousness. Disoriented and bleary-eyed, I survey the scene wildly. At first, my surroundings seem unfamiliar. However, after a few minutes of staring and blinking at the empty chair across from me, I realize I am at Sherlock's flat. I rub the remaining exhaustion out of my eyes and look to the left to find Sherlock asleep on the couch, a large wool blanket on top of him. He is still dressed in his clothes from yesterday. I quirk an eyebrow at the sight.

A whiff of eggs and toast captures my senses a moment later. I turn in my chair and look into the kitchen to see Amelia seated there. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, and she is wearing a shirt and pair of trousers which are much too big for her. She is munching on her toast and staring at the wall, lost in thought.

"Amelia?"

She starts at the sound of her name.

"Oh, good morning Dr. Watson," She chirps.

"W-what are you still doing here?" I ask, smoothing out my wrinkled shirt.

"Mr. Holmes let me spend the night."

My eyes widen in shock.

"H-he what?!" I flusteredly exclaim.

"Yeah, let me sleep in his bed and all," She answers like it was nothing.

I look at her in bewilderment and feel the warmth rise to my cheeks from the scandalous thoughts that enter my mind. Before I can question her further I hear Sherlock speak.

"It's not what you think," He announces groggily.

I look at him and see he is sitting upright now. The wool blanket is wrapped tightly around him, even covering his head like some sort of cloak. He looks utterly ridiculous, but he doesn’t seem to care either way.

”Since you passed out and it was late, I let her sleep in my bed and I slept here. It only made sense considering there is a potential serial killer on the loose,” He explains.

“Oh, I see..” I answer, then I pause when a thought comes to mind, “Hold on didn’t I fall asleep on the couch?”

”Yes you did. But as this is my flat and I am significantly taller, I did not think it unfair to move you,” Sherlock replies simply.

I give him a disapproving look and answer, “You're not _that_ much taller.”

He looks back at me with a raised eyebrow.

”Oh come on, only by three inches!” I insist.

He ignores me and gets up from the couch, abandoning his woolen blanket cloak.   
  
“Right well we should hurry up and get ready quickly,” He orders, fixing the buttons of his shirt, “I doubt our perpetrator is so kind that he is willing to give us both a clue and the extra time to catch him before committing his next crime.”

“What did you pick up on in the film?” Amelia asks before I can make any cold remarks about the state of my neck from sleeping in an armchair all night.   
  
“A number of things," Sherlock starts, "First of all, the love affair of Cora and Frank Chamers is a key theme in the film which should not be ignored. I did not have enough evidence to hold onto that thread before when looking at the last two cases, but now I have no doubt. Somehow, infidelity will also be involved in some form in this next murder and any that follow."

"Sorry, next murder?" I pipe up, "I thought the point was to prevent another murder."

"Ah yes, perhaps it would be better to call it the next...potential murder," Sherlock corrects, then prattles onto his other insights, "Secondly, we should make note that both The Woman In White and Rebecca were works of Englishmen."

"Oh!" I suddenly realize, "Do you suppose there is some connection there to the Englishmen figurines we found?"

"I thought that too," Sherlock answers, and I grin at having felt like I made a rather clever observation. However, his next words dash my newfound pride, "But, this film was an American production, so it doesn't quite connect. Especially seeing as we found three figurines." 

”Do you think the fact that it is an American film could be some sort of clue?” Amelia questions. She has finished her breakfast and drops it into the sink to clean it.  
  
Sherlock is pacing the living room now, “It is hard to say. On one hand, it may be. On the other hand, it could be something meant to throw us off track. Either way, I find it hard to believe it was unintentional. Then there is the matter of it being a film rather than a book...”

”Actually, _The Postman Always Rings Twice_ is a book as well," Amelia answers.

Sherlock looks up in surprise, "Is that so?"

"Yes, which makes it even stranger that our mastermind sent a film this time and not a call number," She ponders aloud, leaning against the kitchen door frame, "I mean, it's not like we don't have multiple copies of it at the library."

"Very strange indeed..." Sherlock mutters, "Amelia, you wouldn't happen to know if there are any specific inconsistencies between the book and the film adaption, would you?"

Amelia chews her nail in thought, "I was thinking about that this morning. Unfortunately, I can't say there are that many that would make sense. A few details are cut out in the film adaption for time, and you don't really get a full sense of what is going on in the character's minds, but the characters themselves, the setting, and overall events are all the same from my memory."

Holmes is visibly frustrated at this note. He begins pacing again, the gears turning in his head.

"Do you think this will take a while?" Amelia asks, turning her attention towards me.

"It depends," I answer with a shrug, "Sometimes it takes him a few minutes, every now and then he is like that for days."

"Ah, well in that case I'll get changed," She responds. 

With that, she goes into Sherlock's room and shuts the door. I turn my attention to the pacing detective, my eyes following his form as he moves back and forth across the living room.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I request, leaning back in my chair.

"There has to be some sort of clue as to when or where the next murder will take place, but what could it be?" He wonders aloud, "Perhaps the clue is in their names? Maybe I should have Lestrade do a background search for anyone with similar names or professions..."

"Maybe someone who owns a diner, like the main guy?" I offer, "Nick, I think his name was in the movie."

"Of course!" Sherlock suddenly shouts, turning to me with a gleeful expression, "It is not a matter of when or where but of whom! How could I have missed something so obvious? Nick is the one murdered by the couple in the film. Therefore, we ought to be looking for a man who would loosely fit his character, just like in the other two cases. Undoubtedly, when we find him it will be apparent whether there is any infidelity in his current relationship. Quick, Watson, list as many diners in the area you can think of!"

I flounder at suddenly being put on the spot, "Ah, er, well, there is the uh The Diner Soho, which is only about a 16-minute drive from here, then there is the er, Diner Camden which is in the opposite direction, and not far at all. Oh, and there is a diner out in Merton, rather tacky, but has quite decent burgers called Waffle Jack's American Diner. Ah, and there is also-"

"That's it!" Sherlock cuts in.

"Er, what is?"

"The American Diner. That has to be it. I need to get this information to Lestrade."

Without any further explanation, he pulls out his phone and begins furiously typing away. Soon Amelia comes back into the room, dressed in her attire from the night before, with her hair now styled into a loose braid over her shoulder.

"Did I miss anything important?" She inquires.

Before I can offer an answer Sherlock suddenly asks, "How do you feel about diner food for lunch?"

* * *

The three of us stand on the street corner looking across the street at a small diner with the words "Waffle Jack's" on the front in bubbly letters. Between the words was what looked to me to be a bear dressed like a lumberjack holding a honey spoon. The wooden paneled facade was a stark contrast to the kitschy interior that could be seen through the tall, glazed windows. Checkerboard flooring, steel accents, and bright red vinyl seating decorated the inside. If that wasn't enough to override one's senses, there was also a large poster hanging above the diner with the words "American Diner" in big red letters, depicting the statue of liberty and an American Flag in the background.

"Well, certainly doesn't scream 'murder scene', now does it?" I supply sarcastically.

"It does scream something, though, that's for certain," Amelia comments.

"I think that something would be a tourist's worst nightmare," I return.

"So what exactly, is the game plan, Mr. Holmes?" Amelia asks, she looks at him slyly, "Are we going to just waltz right in and claim someone's about to be murdered?"

"Not quite," Sherlock answers, "I need to see the owner in person. According to Lestrade, he works in the diner on Tuesdays. His name is Donald Elliot."

"Hm, you know I am a little disappointed it's not Jack," She jokes.

"I think that's supposed to be the name of that strange bear looking thing on the front," I offer.

"Bear? I thought it was a chipmunk" She replies.

"I thought it was a dog," Sherlock adds.

Amelia and I pass him a confused look.

"A dog? It looks nothing like a dog!" I exclaim baffled. 

"Well it doesn't look like a chipmunk either," He returns with a frown.

"It looks more like a chipmunk than a dog though," Amelia defends.

"Well, whatever it is, it is no less terrifying knowing either way," He insists, "Enough chatter, we have a mystery to solve."

With that, he flings his scarf defiantly and crosses the street, Amelia and I following closely behind.

Once inside, we follow Sherlock's lead by taking the first three open stools at the bar. A middle-aged woman with a bright red lip and pin curled blonde hair asks us for our order in a thick Cockney accent.

"Just some chips, please," I request.

"I'll have a strawberry milkshake," Amelia orders.

"Coffee," Sherlock answers abruptly. As she pours him a cup he asks, "Is Donald here by chance? I'm a good friend of his and thought I'd say hello."

"Donnie's in the back," She answers, "I'll go fetch 'em for ya. What'd you say your name was?"

I look at Sherlock to see if he'll stumble for a response but quickly answers, "John."

"Alright then. Be right back."

With that, she disappears into the kitchen.

Sherlock glances over at me to see me giving him a suspicious look.

"John? That's the best you could come up with?"

"Your parents seemed it was suitable," He answers.

"And I'll never forgive them for it," I reply sardonically, "No name is more generic, more boring, more-"

"Common," Sherlock finishes, "Everyone knows at least one John. Figured it was my best shot. Either that or George."

"You don't really strike me as a George," Amelia quips, "Although I could see perhaps an Oliver."

"Blegh, Oliver is so...adolescent," Sherlock answers.

"If I had to pick an undercover name I think it'd be Elizabeth," She wonders aloud, "like Elizabeth Bennet from Pride And Prejudice _._ What about you, Dr. Watson?"

"Well I would stick with John but it appears it's already taken."

"Ah, yes, sorry about that," Sherlock answers, seeming less than apologetic.

The waitress comes back with a retro-style glass full of strawberry shake, and a basket of chips. She sets them in front of us and not much later a rather portly man wearing a grease-stained apron exits from the kitchen and approaches us. He looks around in confusion.

"Hey Margie, I thought you said my old pal John was here?" He asks.

"He's the lanky one right there," She gestures to Holmes, then leaves to attend to another customer. 

Donnie's look of befuddlement changes to suspicion. He crosses his arms and stares the three of us down.

"Alright, this has to be some kinda joke," Donnie growls, "I mean, I know John and I haven't talked in years, but there ain't no way he lost so much weight. What gives?"

Sherlock studies the man in front of him carefully before forming his next sentence, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and these are my associates Dr. Watson, and Ms. Amelia Eames. We have reason to suspect that you are about to be the target of a rather nefarious individual."

The man's eyebrows lift in surprise, "Sherlock Holmes...? Ahh, yeah I've heard about ya. Aren't you that guy with the funny hat in the papers?"

"Is that really my best identifier? The hat? Really?" Sherlock sighs exasperatedly.

"You have to admit it makes you stand out much more," Amelia comments between sips of her shake.

"Listen, I don't know what you're up to," Donnie says, waving away the idea, "but I don't see why anyone would want to target my diner."

"Well, it isn't exactly your diner that they want," Sherlock explains, "It's you." 

That seems to catch Donnie's full attention. His eyes widen like saucers.

"There is a serial murderer on the loose, and we have reason to believe you are who he is coming for next. Now, I suggest-"

Donnie guffaws, cutting Holmes off, "Alright, alright. Very funny. This some kind of prank, right? Come on now, who are you really?"

Holmes frowns, "I told you already, we are-"

"Yeah, yeah, right Sherlock Holmes or what have you. Listen, this is all a good laugh, but my business is clean. I'm just a humble diner owner - always have been. You've got me mistaken for someone else."

"Mr. Elliot, I-" Sherlock insists, but Donnie is already turning to leave.

"I got cop friends and all that," Donnie says, carelessly, "I'll tell them to keep a lookout if it makes you feel better. But really, I'm the last person you'd find on any crazy killer's list. I run an honest business, and I got honest customers. You want to play detective, go right ahead, but I'm telling ya, you got the wrong guy."

"How would you feel about us conducting a stakeout, then?" Sherlock asks.

Donnie's hand is on the door to the kitchen when Holmes' words give him pause. He turns slowly towards us, with a skeptical expression on his brow.

"What, you wanna spy on me now?" He says, gruffly.

"I am willing to offer my services for free," Sherlock offers, lacing his fingers together diplomatically, "Whether you believe there to be a murderer on the loose or not, as a humble, honest diner owner, shouldn't you want to take every precaution to keep your employees and business safe?"

Donnie folds his arms and stares Sherlock down. Holmes maintains unflinching eye contact. I look between the two of them anxiously. Amelia slurps down the rest of her shake.

"Alright, fine," Donnie finally gives in, "You want to spy on my business and catch any ne'er-do-wells out there, fine by me. Might be good for business if you do catch a criminal or two while at it."

"Quite," Sherlock agrees. He passes a quick smile, which drops as soon as Donnie turns and leaves through the kitchen doors. 

Sherlock jumps to his feet and tightens his scarf.

"Right then. Let's go."


	9. The Stakeout

"Right, we've got snacks, sleeping bags, a few pillows, recording equipment, flashlights, some rather snazzy binoculars with night vision and zoom capabilities, and of course, phone chargers," Amelia lists off, "Anything else either of you think we will need?"

Her, Watson, and I are standing in my flat, looking at the spread of equipment on the table between us. 

"Not that comes to mind," Watson answers.

"Could do with a few more snacks," I comment, picking up a pair of the binoculars to test out its features. 

"Ah, I'll see if Mrs. Hudson has anything else for us," Amelia replies, and heads into the kitchen.

I turn to Watson and try to hand him the binoculars.

"Perhaps you should be in charge of these," I offer, "I imagine you are more familiar with working with all these high tech features than I am."

"Er, actually, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I won't be coming tonight," He answers.

"What do you mean?" I ask, furrowing my brow.

"I have a date tonight," He replies, holding back a cheeky grin.

"Oh please, you cannot be serious," I return.

"Her name is Ruth, and she is a delightful young woman. I said I'd meet her for dinner," He explains, "It wouldn't be right for me to cancel so suddenly."

"She's not interested in more than a free meal and maybe a peck on the cheek. You're better off missing," I insist.

He eyes me suspiciously, "Have you been hacking my phone again?"

"It's not exactly ‘hacking’ when your passwords are so easy to figure out. I mean seriously, who still uses their birthday these days? Come on then," I hold the binoculars in front of him.

Watson folds his arms and shakes his head, "I'm serious. I'm not coming."

I huff in frustration and toss the binoculars back onto the table.

"I mean really, it’s hardly likely you’ll catch anyone tonight anyway. It could take days," Watson continues, "One night off from me won't make much difference."

"Whatever. Do as you wish," I answer coldly. 

"Oh come on, don't do that," He sighs.

"Do what? I'm not doing anything," I reply.

"You know what I mean."

"If you want to go on another pointless date that will get you nowhere, go right ahead," I return, "Just don't come complaining to me when you find out I'm right."

Watson scoffs, "Are you really trying to turn this into an opportunity to prove you're a know-it-all? Seriously? What makes you so certain you’ll be right about this anyway?"

"Because I always am. Some would say it's my 'thing'," I quip back, "Besides, there is nothing sillier than buying a meal for someone who only finds you interesting because of a few well-edited pictures and a description of yourself that can only be 150 characters or less."

"You never know, she may sit down, have a chat, and find me quite delightful," He returns.

"Mm, not likely."

"Listen, Sherlock, I don't have many other options at my age," Watson replies, picking up his coat to leave, "Unlike a recluse like you, I'm actually trying to find myself someone to spend my life with."

"If you really think any relationship you form out of a dating app will last beyond a year - two if you're really lucky - then you're far more gullible than I thought you were, John."

"There are hundreds of people with happy, lifelong marriages who meet on dating apps," He answers as he pulls on his coat. His tone is rising and his face is getting a bit red with frustration, "You may be an intelligent man, Holmes, I'll even be the first to attest to it, but you are utterly daft when it comes to these sorts of matters."

"What sorts of matters? Online dating?" I taunt.

Watson shakes his head and heads toward the door. Although he is clearly trying to hold his tongue, I cannot help myself. My next words come spilling out before I can help it.

"John, it's about time you've realized that you're more suited to chasing serial killers with me than you are to become a husband or father."

That hits a nerve. He is at the door when he spins to face me, looking furious.

He points threateningly at me and spits back, "You know, _one day_ Sherlock, you'll learn that there are far more important things than solving mysteries and bolstering your selfish pride!"

With that, John turns, flings the door open, exits into the hall, and slams the door behind him. 

A moment later, Amelia rushes back into the room, bags of crisps in her arms. 

"What was that all about?' She asks bewilderedly.

"Nothing," I answer calmly, "Come on, it's time we leave."

* * *

I watch the people crossing the road down below. Each person mills about their usual routines and errands. I didn't have to look more than the top of their heads to know they were all just your average day to day people. And average was just another word for boring.

I sigh exasperatedly and lower my binoculars. I was tired of looking at the same scene for hours now.

"Sorry about your friend," Amelia pipes up.

She is seated beside me on the dusty concrete flooring, a book in her lap and her chin resting on her hands. The two of us had been conducting our stakeout in the abandoned building across the street from Waffle Jack's. It was a rather cramped room, hardly enough space for the two of us. Nonetheless, the dusty windows which overlooked the street kept us hidden while still providing a good view of everything going on below.

"What do you have to be sorry about?" I answer coldly, "It's not like you told him to go on a date with another foppish woman that he met on one of those atrocious dating apps."

She shrugs, "That's true I suppose. But, it seemed to me like you were just trying to help him avoid any disappointment. Even if you did take it a little too far.”

I don’t entertain her with a response and return my attention to the street below.

”Want some licorice?” She offers, holding up a bag of Twizzlers that she had been munching on.

I look at the bag disapprovingly.

"No thank you."

"Oh come on, sugar helps even the most heartbroken," She replies.

"I'm not heartbroken," I refuse.

"Could've fooled me," She answers, "You are acting much colder than usual. And that's saying a lot."

I again ignore her comments and try to focus on the customers going in and out of Waffle Jack's. A crowd of rowdy young teens walks in as an elderly couple walks out. Still nothing out of the ordinary. As I stare through the binocular lenses, I sense Amelia scoot a bit closer to me.

"Hey, what do you say we play a game?!" She exclaims, clapping her hands together.

My ears perk at the suggestion, but I try to play it off with a rigid response, "What kind of game?"

"You're good at reading people, right?" She asks.

"I make deductions based on my observations," I correct.

"Right! I'm not too bad at that myself, you know," She answers, sounding a bit smug, "How about we pick a person and each say something we observe about them. We will go back and forth until we run out of things to say, and whoever goes last gets a point!"

I mull the idea over in my mind. I had to admit, it didn't sound like a terrible idea for a game. And with how terribly boring this stakeout had been so far, it might help to have some sort of mental exercise to keep our wits about us. I glance over and see a glimmer of excitement in her eyes as she waits for my response.

"Alright then," I relent, "I'll go first."

"Then I get to choose who we start with," She shoots back.

"Fair enough," I agree, and hold the binoculars out to her.

"Yes!" She celebrates and takes them from my hand. She edges closer to the window, and peers downward, "Let's see here....aha! That's a good one," She passes the binoculars back to me, "There is a man in a green overcoat sitting outside. We'll start with him."

I scan the scene and pick him out immediately. An easy target. Dozens of deductions spill into my mind. It is hard to choose just one. I decide to pick the most obvious to start.

"He is unemployed," I state.

"And your reasoning?" She asks, "For evidence that you're not just making something up."

"He's eating lunch during standard work hours in a heavily residential area," I explain, "And his greasy hair is evidence that he hasn't showered in three days. He's also looking at the job postings page in that newspaper he's holding."

She nods, looking a bit impressed, "Not bad."

Pride swells inside me at the light praising. Rarely did I hear people celebrate my deductions. Usually, the response was more annoyance or scoffing. I suppress the feeling, trying to maintain my usual calm and collected composure.

"Alright here's mine," She states, "He has a serious nicotine addiction."

"And your reasoning?" I repeat her own question, partially mockingly as I myself knew the answer already. An amused smile lights her face at me doing so.

"The ashtray in front of him already has two freshly used up cigarettes and he's just lit another."

I look and see that he is doing so as she speaks. A fine deduction, but a very easy one nonetheless.

"He's also an alcoholic, which is likely why he is currently unemployed," I quickly note.

"Hey now, that's technically two deductions," She comments with a frown.

I roll my eyes, "They go hand in hand. Signs of withdrawal and self-neglect, such as the aforementioned greasy hair, disheveled clothing, and jittery movements show that he is trying to cut back. The most logical conclusion is due to his recent unemployment status."

"Hmm, I disagree," She challenges, "I think the stronger likelihood is pressure from his spouse."

I frown, "Spouse? He doesn't have a wedding band."

"Not currently no, but he did very recently," She combats, "Redness and slight indentation around his ring finger indicates he recently removed it. And his frequent habit of reaching into his front coat pocket with his pointer finger and thumb tells me he is conscious of something inside - a ring is certainly big enough to fit inside a pocket like that without appearing bulky. The fact that he keeps checking that it is there shows that he is still attached to it, while the fact that he has removed it from his finger indicates a recent split or separation. Perhaps the result of a spat, even, after an alcoholic episode where he threatened a divorce. The phone sitting on the table has lit up five times in the past minute. His wife keeps texting him. She is undoubtedly angry at him, but she thinks things can be worked out, meaning it was more his end that ended things so abruptly.”

I am at a loss for how to respond. When I realize my jaw is a bit agape, I quickly snap it shut and look back through my binoculars. I zoom in to his left hand and see there is indeed some redness and slight indentation. I then see him reach into his pocket again and nearly pull something out before dropping it back in. It is thin and silver. From what I could see it certainly had the shape and shine of a wedding band. I cannot believe I missed such an observation. Nor can I believe that Amelia caught it before I did. 

I clear my throat, "Ahem, well. That was...a good deduction."

“It’s actually rather sad,” She goes on after pondering for a bit, “The fact that he is out there, searching for jobs, fighting his alcoholism, and still holding onto his ring shows he cares for his wife, but feels he has to first get himself together before he can go back to her. Meanwhile, it seems to me she just wants him to come back, whether he is the same or not. She wants to help him, while he cannot burden her with such a thing anymore. It’s really quite a caring relationship.”

”You call that caring?” I mock, “Sounds more like insanity to me.”

”Love is kind of like insanity,” She answers, her voice softening to a wistful tone, “It is often that complex variable which creates such unpredictability in people. When two people love each other, they often do or say very crazy, sometimes terrible, things. Not because they don’t care, but because they care too much.”

Her last words give me pause. I mull them over quietly. Love...admittedly I never understood it. It always seemed like such a foolish endeavor to me. Perhaps that is why I felt the need to stop John from pursuing it. After all, it is a pursuit that seems to never end in his favor. As his friend, it seemed only right to dissuade him. Even as I think it, though, I cannot help but feel a twang of guilt settle in my stomach over the whole argument.

"His shoes,” I state, setting the feeling aside.

"Shoes?" Amelia cocks her head curiously at the abrupt shift in conversation.

"The man below. His shoes are practically worn down to the sole. Add to that his outdated attire, and the tattered hem of his jacket, as well as the fact that he has not tipped his waiter. He is a notorious penny pincher. Final observation. Your turn."

"Oh come on now that is not nearly as good as the one I had!" She proclaims, offended by such a meager deduction.

"Ah, ah," I tut, "You never gave note of the scale of the deduction. Just that we had to be the last person to make one at all. Do you have one to add?"

She stammers, "W-well, I..." She focuses her full attention on the window, searching for anything left. 

However, I knew the answer before she even gives in.

She relents disappointedly, "Ugh, no I can't come up with a single thing with good evidence. You win that one."

"Haha!" I clap my hands together excitedly at having won, "Point one, Sherlock. Zero for Amelia."

"Oh come off it, you don't have to rub it in!"

"I get to pick next, right? How about the woman with the puffy jacket down there?"

The two of us continue our little game for some time, chasing away the hours. Before long we find ourselves at nightfall with tired eyes and exhausted minds.

Amelia lets out a long yawn and stretches her arms over her head.

"So, how are we going to split up the night shift?" She asks.

"We ought to go in 45-minute bursts. That way it will give us a bit of rest, but not so long that it will be difficult to keep our wits about when awake again," I answer, "I'll go first. You can rest up."

"Sounds fair to me. I'll roll out the sleeping bags." 

With that she is up on her feet, making a comfortable spot along one of the walls as I continue to gaze out at the street, watching the hustle and bustle of the nighttime crowd. 

"Sherlock?" 

I turn my attention away from the window to Amelia. She is curled up in the sleeping bag, her glasses set on the ground beside her. Her golden, cat-like eyes shine even in the darkened room.

"Yes?" 

In the dim lighting, I can still see her softened expression. Again, I get a glimpse of that gentle, genuine smile she had shown the night before. My throat feels very dry for some reason, and I am suddenly quite mindful of the dust and dirt now gathered on my pant leg, and whether or not any food was stuck in my teeth. I shove these strange concerns aside, annoyed that they had come to mind at all.

"I had fun earlier," Amelia says her voice nearly a whisper, "I must say, it is rare that I find a person as refreshing and entertaining as you."

I hesitate to respond. How exactly does one answer such a statement? Was it a genuine compliment or another one of her smug jabs? For some reason, I felt as though she meant something more than what was said, but I could not tell. My befuddlement must be evident on my face because she chuckles.

"Don't overthink it," She adds, "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

"Goodnight, Ms. Eames," I answer simply.

With that she turns over and goes to sleep, leaving my mind to ponder why she felt the need to say such things.

Several minutes pass before I glance over at her sleeping frame again. Moonlight spills through the dirty window, lighting her form. Her hair is splayed out around her in long, brunette waves. She stirs for a moment and then unconsciously pulls the blanket tighter over her body and shivers.

I think to myself, "It would not bode well if she caught a cold."

So, I get up and grab one of the extra blankets from our duffle bag and layer it on top of her. Then I sit back down and refocus on the diner.


End file.
